waste of tape

Warning: This entry contains references to Girl Problems.

Good Morning! I thought I would blog today after my long, self-imposed hiatus because my day is assy! (You like how I used “ass” as an adjective? That’s why they pay me the big bucks.) Pure, unadulterated ass!

This is the thing: I have been PMSing for 9 goddamn days. This is not normal. My irritation and emotional fragility levels have grown together, mutating into some hideous hormonal Gleeok . I watched that episode of Cold Case with the two gay police officers and cried for half an hour straight. Then, I thought, gay police officers, that’s nothing. Gay Cowboys ! And then my brain broke because Heath Ledger! Nooooooooooo! And then I cried more, like horrifying, Claire Danes-style dying giraffe sobs. And then I wanted chocolate. This is what my day is like, crying and craving and crying some more, but with intermittent blinding rages because the fucking copyboy did everything double-sided, but upside down. Upside down! Dude! You have one job and it is to copy things. FAIL!!!

I hate everyone and everything. I am consoling myself by looking up screencaps of the teaboy from Torchwood because he is all fine-boned and youthful and that’s apparently the type of man to which pre-menstrual women are attracted. Unless, of course, in the throes of that blinding rage during which I am attracted to men whose mouths are SEWN SHUT and are ON FIRE.

I’m sure you’ve all, at some point, come to the realization that I can be kind of an asshole.  I hope that you also realize that most of the time, I’m not even doing it on purpose, it just comes out that way.  As such, I find that I am, perhaps, more confrontational with strangers who piss me off than is probably strictly necessary.  I’m sure all of you who have been in public with me have had the heartwarming experience of either shushing me or pulling me away when I’ve begun mouthing off to that jerk who won’t stop talking during the movie or the bitch who bumped into me without a backwards glance.  In a  related story, this chick was totally rude to me today and I was forced to be even more rude in return. (Ruder?  Is ruder a word?  More rude?  I was an English major, and I’m always confused about that.)  It was a moral imperative!  Now, first off,  I’m not saying I was runway ready, but I looked normal-nice today.  I mean, honestly, how bad could you possibly look wearing a black dress and black boots, provided the boots do not look like this.  Or this.  Because those are gross, and yet people still buy them, and you know who you are and I can’t say it any plainer than this:  they’re ugly.  Round or pointy, pick a toe and stick with it—and square is not an option. 

(If you have shoes like this, I love you, but they are still ugly.  Bygones!) 

I digress.  So, I’m in the elevator, looking totally inoffensive, and this woman I’ve never met before gives me the whole up-down look, scrunches her nose and says with distaste, “Nice outfit.”  Then she smirked at the girl standing next to her.  Nuh-uh!  No, you didn’t, Miss Patent Leather Chunky-Heeled Loafer.  No.  You.  Did.  NOT.  Hold me back! And yes, MAYBE I was wearing fishnets and MAYBE they were the kind with the seam up the back, but they were the non-whorey ones with the little holes and you could only see like 6 inches of them between my boots and the hem of the dress which is TOTALLY below my knee, so like, not skanky AT ALL.  What a bitch, right?  So when she snarked out that “Nice outfit,” I had no choice but to return with the first thing that came to mind:  “Nice moustache.” 

Not particularly deft, but nonetheless effective.

As it turns out, I am addicted to Tab Energy Drink and against my better judgment, have been downing them for breakfast and elevenses with a venti americano chaser. In case you were wondering, this is a BAD idea. Once the caffeine takes hold of my system, my vocal cords become one with the Speed Force.  Then my hands begin to shake and maybe, just maybe, if I’m really lucky, I knock over the Starbucks cup and americano goes flying all over Everything In The World.  Not that that’s happened.  More than once.  Or that I had to get a new monitor or anything.  And *if* I did have to get a new monitor it would have sucked even more since our departmental IT guy?  Total robot, hand to god. He looks at me like whatever I just said or did is going into his files later. Data points on Awesomepants, Ahe: moods and emotions, annoyed by spelling errors and enjoys baking. He’s also got this lurky, only the darkness understands me, I walk a lonely road, the only road that I have ever known thing going on which, unless you’re a member of the Bat Family is totally not cool. I mean, I think that I am pretty straightforward in my displeasure.  If I am pissed, you will know and if you are smart, you will run.  Mr. Roboto will just bust out these empty, impenetrable stares, this blank wall of “draw your own horrible conclusions.”  It’s pretty impressive, actually.  I should learn that skill and add it to my repertoire.

Speaking of work, I finally have someone new to hate: the latest intern, Fake Accent. Srsly. Her parents are from Great Britain, but she was born and raised in Texas and she has this really convenient, slightly upper crust British accent. When I say “convenient,” I mean that it only comes out when she’s trying to be smart, is totally condescending for no discernable reason or is talking to an executive. Oh, and it disappears when she’s talking to her friends on the phone. Because she does that a lot, the whole talking to her friends on the phone thing. At work. When she’s supposed to be, I don’t know, fucking working?  Fake Accent is also flustered all the time, which I can’t quite figure out since she never seems to have anything to do, but apparently that whole load of jack and shit is stressful enough that she spends her day stompy-clomping around, throwing notepads on her desk and sighing like the tragic heroine of a bad romance novel.  I’ve been doing my level best to make her life miserable, naturally.  I figure if she’s going to act like a spoiled brat, I might as well give her something to complain about, and I know that’s spiteful and cruel, but I’ve already come to terms with the less-than-savory aspects of my true nature.

Confession:  I am severely addicted to Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series.  If you’re unfamiliar, to sum up:  super hot eternally teenaged vampire falls for ordinary teenage girl.  Oh, and the rival for said girl’s affections?  Werewolf.  Oh yeah.  That’s some classy literature right there.  I swear, I have actually reverted to my ninth grade self and it’s freaking me out.  The other weekend, I got wasted and in the car on the way home, I was holding one of the books and the driver asked me about it and I was like, “zomfg it’s the superest awesomest book EVAR about a wicked hot vampire who falls in love with this high school girl.”  My rambling, incoherent professions of eternal love for the series were met with blank looks and a drunken Neil in the backseat snickered and responded that it “sounded dumb.”  I immediately yelled back, “YOU JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND!!!”  Literally.  I used those exact words.  I should be ashamed, but I’m not.  Those are my words and I stand by them.  Who doesn’t want a hot, awesome vampire boyfriend, goddammit?

Confidential to the production team for DC’s Countdown Issue 33: UNFORGIVABLE! Are you telling me that this somehow slipped through the cracks?  Seriously?!  Seriously!   Letterer Jared K. Fletcher, Inker Jay Leisten—you’re on notice. Whoever is responsible for frigging proofreading—you’re dead to me. Feel my disdain, dumbasses!  

I have some very troubling news: the days of Mega Meaty Boys and Super Mecha Nacho Fries are officially over. The dining room at work recently went through a drastic change from its original straight buffet formation to some ridiculously complicated multiple station system: some things you can serve yourself, some things you must order and some things you pay for when you enter and some when you leave—it’s stupid and anti-intuitive and crowded and goddamn it, the first few days have been PANDELRIUM. Swarming throngs of overweight, poorly dressed Seattle-ites passive-aggressively complaining that their salmon fillet is taking too long to prepare and all I want is my goddamn grilled cheese sandwich! Assholes.

In a related story, I am totally addicted to grilled cheese sandwiches.

I am, in fact, eating one right now, capping off the end of a nearly perfect weekend.  Yesterday, I spent an hour or so sifting through the used comics and trades in Half Price Books and was, to be frank, slightly aroused by the sheer awesomeness of the selection—everything was near mint and like, a quarter!  (Jonas, btw, I have a bunch of random Youngblood to slide your way now).  Reading some older books took my mind off of this stupid DC Countdown series whose only purpose at present seems to be Svengali-ing me into liking a) completely useless tertiary characters (Trickster and Piper are rapidly becoming my best friends) and b) Jason fucking Todd who should be goddamn dead, dammit! DEAD! As much as I hate him and want him to be dead again, I have to admit that he is kind of a badass. When Kon-Welling Prime punched time or whatever and Todd woke up six feet under a graveyard in Gotham City, that little bastard clawed his way out with creep-tastic aplomb that would put Buffy to shame and now he’s a psychotic, amoral vigilante who kills criminals just for the fun of it. Now that I think about it, I’m hoping Emoboy Prime has another temper tantrum because I’d really like Bart Allen to come back to life. Though, I guess speedsters don’t need time-punching to resurrect. They can just vibrate right through logic. I still say that of all the characters in the ‘verse, Tim Drake is the one who’d be able to figure out how to bring someone back to life, whether through temporal folds or scary black magic. He’s creepy-smart, Battishly-pragmatic and currently wallowing in grief and feelings of responsibility for the deaths of his loved ones, all of which will implode when Batman dies in the Final Crisis. Though I guess it isn’t saying much that he’s the smartest guy in the DC universe, since apparently, anyone in the DCU can be fooled by a goddamn pair of glasses.

Speaking of Buffy, I am very excited to hear that David Boreanaz will be providing voicework for Justice League: The New Frontier, even if he’s going to be Hal Jordan/Green Lantern. Aside from the fact that Kyle Rayner is kind of a hot piece, Green Lanterns are useless and boring. The only thing any of them have ever done that’s worth a damn is when Guy Gardner scrawled “Bye Bye Bats” on the Watchtower window and mooned Batman from fucking space. He MOONED BATMAN. No matter how you cut it, that’s ten kinds of awesome.

I’m so sorry.  It has been ages and ages and I’m a total douchetard for abandoning you, blog of mine.  I guaran-goddamn-tee a shiny new entry this weekend sometime (though I cannot guarantee that the entry will be about something other than Batman).  To tide you over until then, my latest chat transcript and further reason for you to fear my brain.

Well, I wasn’t going to post today, but I will because Rira and Jonas are fucking whiners, and since I had no intention of writing anything, you will get half-formed rambles and stuff about comic books.  That’s right, comic books.  How you like them apples? 

We’ve got this dining room in my building at work that’s actually…well…fine, I suppose, and given my penchant for bitching and moaning, that’s high praise. It’s on the 16^th floor w/a water view, so on a nice summer day, it’s absolutely gorgeous. The food situation is balls to the wall nutso—full buffet, salad bar, sandwich bar, pizza, grill, baked potato bar, dessert, etc. Oh, and it’s a buffet, so it’s all you can eat, which, right, thanks, like this city needs to be any fatter.  It’s like half the population has a pillow shoved up under their skin—and don’t give me that face, it’s fucking true, and I don’t really wonder why when for 7 dollars, you can get all you can eat meat, you know what I’m saying?  My work husband (who is actually quite trim) and I (who could stand to lose a couple) have created several gut-busting recipes up at the Sugar Maple.  His specialty is the Mega Meaty Boy:  you pile a bun up with one hamburger patty, one turkey burger, and a sampling of all the deli meat from the sandwich bar.  Oh, and bacon.  Healthy.  While delicious, the Mega Meaty Boy is a little too intense for me, so I generally opt for *my* specialty:  Super Mecha Nacho Fries.  I take garlic fries and cover them with that toxic yellow melted cheese gunk, green onions, jalapenos, chicken, ground beef, tomatoes, sour cream, shredded cheese and ranch dressing.  You heard me.   You eat some of that and I guarantee you will sound like you’re in food porn. Which I’ve seen on crazyshit.com and which I don’t really get. I mean, it’s really messy. I can’t figure out how people get turned on when they’re getting blueberry pie all over the couch. You know that’s going to stain!

Anyway.  It’s really quiet around the office today, so I’ve been using that time to misuse the scanner and upload pics of various issues of Robin and Teen Titans to help illustrate some of the points I have brought up with Jonas in our now epic gmail conversation about our relative nerdery and various bagging, boarding and boxing tendencies. Yes, by the way, I am an adult who reads comic books. At this point, I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. Sure, I could cut myself off from most of them, but there’s no way I could give up Robin cold turkey. I’ve been reading that fucking title for sixteen years. SIXTEEN YEARS. That’s almost two-thirds of my life! I’ve been reading that series for almost as long as I have had a youngest brother!  21 Jump Street was still on the air when I started reading Robin!  Newsies hadn’t come out yet!  I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHO CHRISTIAN BALE WAS!!!  Oh, the humanity.

Long-running titles are like soap operas for geeks—40 years from now, I’ll be lounging on a day bed in a housecoat, eating cherry cordials, leafing through the latest issue of Detective Comics and telling my husband I’m too busy with “my stories” to get up. Those fat cats at DC and Marvel are sneaky bastards—they pull you into their tangled web of nerdosity and keep you there for lyfe. This is how it happened to me: I pull A Death in The Family off the Graphic Novel shelves at the Hawai’i State Library. Read a few DC issues, voila—witness the introduction of Tim Drake and his assumption of the Robin mantle. Idly pick up the first annual and then the limited series, Joker’s Wild, in which Tim is revealed to be a big old role-playing game loving dork (!canon!) in an ass-whupping, bow staff-wielding, split-kicking body AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND I was hooked.

So, Tim “Dungeon Master” Drake is awesome and sure, he has his own book, but he’s also still Batman’s partner and a major figure in Batman, Detective Comics and all the other eleventy-billion Batman titles there are, not to mention the other members of the Bat-Clan like Mulletwing and Batgirl and I’m not even going to touch limited series and one-shots. Now here’s the motherfucking rub (and also, the sheer, evil brilliance of companies like DC): their characters exist in the same universe and therefore, can pop up in other titles whenever the powers that be deem it necessary. Robin, Impulse and Superboy team up in Young Justice and later in the third version of the New Teen Titans—which means more series to buy, PLUS all of the guest appearances and DCU events like Infinite Crisis and 52. This would be like is all NBC shows existed on the same plane of reality and Sawyer has flashbacks of him and Peter Petrelli hanging out on a rooftop with the Donnelleys while Snow Patrol plays in the background! MAD GENIUS! Of course some obsessive-compulsive chump like me is going to be all “omgtimdrakeisinthreepanelsinthisissuemustbuyimmediatelyormyfragileuniversewillcollapse!!!”  Fuckers!  It’s like they KNOW me or something!

Speaking of, I’ve been TiVo’ing Teen Titans for awhile and I kept catching the teaser for the show directly after it…what I have come to know as the awesomest cartoon of all (barring Voltron, naturally): Ben 10! Our young hero, the spunky, spiky-haired Ben Tennyson is on an apparently never-ending road trip with his cousin, Gwen, and their grandfather. Ben recently came into possession of the Omnitrix, an alien device that allows him, with the turn of a dial, to transform into one of 10 freakish alien life forms. The Tennyson family encounters all manner of villain who they defeat through a combination of Ben’s transformation, Gwen’s book smarts and Grandpa’s down home wisdom. Ben 10! Cool concept. Also? Ben 10’s nemesis? Kevin 11, this total emo kid who absorbed the powers of the Omnitrix and can transform as well. KEVIN ELEVEN. I can’t say it out loud without giggling. Kevin 11!

They should make a Young Justice cartoon.  I’d totally watch/become crazy-obsessed with it.  I mean, I know I haven’t had entirely good things to say about Superboy and all.  For example, how it’s a totally ridiculous character construct and what the hell kind of costume is a tee-shirt and jeans and if he’s cloned out of Superman and Lex Luthor, theoretically, he got the Y-chromosome from one and the X-chromosome from the other, so which one’s the mom?  And also, doesn’t that make it totally canon that Lex and Clark have a love child?  Doesn’t it?  Well, truth is, I actually like Superboy. He’s just such a big, dumb well-meaning jock.  Plus, he watches the DCU equivalent of Buffy, Wendy The Werewolf Stalker and, incidentally, makes the same case about that show as I make about Buffy. And also? He totally hates that stupid dog, Krypto. Every time they’re in the same panel, you can tell he’s thinking “There’s gonna be Kryptonite in your puppy chow if you don’t shut the fuck up, mutt.”  Amen, Kon-El. And RIP, btw. And RIP Bart Conner too.

Seriously, what’s up with that? The DCUTPTB are systematically killing everyone that Tim Drake loves: Mom, Dad, Girlfriend, Best Friend, 2^nd Best Friend—is this a conspiracy to make him all emo, or what? Or to slowly drive him crazy so he goes all darkside (not Darkseid)?  I mean, he’s clearly already crazy—he’s down in his Mad Scientist Lab trying to re-clone Kon-El.  Infinitely more troubling, he turned down a naked, willing Ravager? And THEN, he kicked Jason Todd in the junk!  Okay, wait, that’s a totally rational impulse.  Heh, check out the squiggly lines of pain and anger radiating out of his head.  Priceless.  I would buy an entire issue devoted to various and sundry characters kicking Jason Todd in the nuts, but the other stuff?  Shenanigans!  Robin needs Superboy!  And Impulse! Tim thinks that Batman needs a Robin to keep from getting all grim and gritty, but he really means “lonely and even crazier than usual.” Tim needed Kon and Bart for that exact reason—they keep him from being a paranoid, creepy lunatic stalker (well, from being a total paranoid, creepy lunatic stalker, at any rate) and he keeps them from being buffoons (well, from being total buffoons, at any rate)  Neither Tim nor Kon would say this, of course, because they are dudes.  Bart would have said it, because he was raised in virtual reality without the socialization that makes guys repress their totally non-sexual guy love.

In the grand tradition of tooting my own horn, I’d like to draw your attention to my MIGHTY MAD GENIUS TELEVISION PROGNOSTICATION SKILLS.

Item One:  “Also, that part in the dream when Nathan runs towards him BETTER not mean that the Elder Petrelli is going to pull some Big Damn Hero move and save the city by grabbing Exploding Guy and taking him up into the stratosphere because I shall not suffer any dead Petrellis.  No sir.”

Outcome:  Well, if you just watched Heroes, you’ll know that I am suffering one, possibly two dead goddamn Petrellis RIGHT NOW, because the Elder Petrelli indeed pulled some Big Damn Hero move and flew his Bomb Brother up into the stratosphere.

Commentary:  I am the champion, my friends…

Item Two A:  “Oh, and by the by, I want to stay away from real spoilers because I heard the finale is going to be UNBELIEVABLE. Which, of course, means someone dies or is on the brink of death. Which means it must be Sam because there’s just no suspense with Dean on that one, is there?”

Item Two B:  “I feel like I jinxed Sam into getting skewered when I postulated on my blog that the season would end with him dying or on the brink of death. What will Dean do? I mean, besides the obvious selling his soul to get Sam back.”

Outcome:  Sam dies and Dean sells his soul to bring him back to life.

Commentary:  I have drunk from the keg of glory!  Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land!

In conclusion, all shall love me and despair!

I’m back!  I may have forgotten to mention it, but I had a lovely long vacation in Southern California.  I went to Disneyland and California Adventure, Universal Studios, Knott’s Berry Farm, and then some dude stabbed me in the back and I died and my brother sold his soul to bring me back to life.  Oh, no wait.  Maybe that last part only happened on Thursday night at 9:00 and not to me, but to someone much hotter.  Highlights include (and will be expounded upon later):  Peter Pan!  Fudge!  Cotton Candy!  Fast Passes!  OMFGINVERSIONROLLERCOASTER!  Frankenstein totally trying to kill me!  Johnny Depp!  Sunburn!  LA traffic!  Getting stuck on Pirates of the Caribbean—AGAIN!  Fried chicken!  Boysenberries!  60 minutes in line for Space Mountain!

Among other things.

So, let’s talk about disappointment: another birthday come and gone and nary a sign of David Boreanaz. Here is a place of disaffection, indeed. I know I talk a good game about The JPad, but you all must know I’m on Team Boreanaz—TO THE BONE!

I was almost placated after the No-Boreanaz-Birthday when some lovely soul hooked me up with Superman pajamas, which wins at goddamn life. They, of course, came with a short lecture on how Batman is way awesomer than Superman, which is kind of true and yet also kind of beyond the point since however cool Batman may be, Superman could still kick the everloving crap out of that emo whiner any day of the week. Sure, Batman may be crafty, but he can’t shoot holes through your chest with eye-jaculated laser beams, can he? Superman would wrap Batman around a lamppost and LEAVE HIM THERE. The only way Batman wins in this fight is if he has a kryptonite hammer, and I think we can all agree that that’s just cheating. *I* would beat Superman with a kryptonite hammer. And let’s not forget that in the event Batman *does* have a kryptonite hammer, he’s still a filthy pedophile who cultivates his billionaire playboy image to camouflage his penchant for surrounding himself with adolescent boys in daisy dukes.

Okay, so obligatory Supernatural junk: after watching the ripe-with-meta episode Hollywood Babylon, I’ve come to the conclusion that the character of Dean Winchester is loosely based on me. That’s right. Dean is a fanboygeek extraordinaire. About Metalstorm: The Destruction of Jared-Syn. Which I own. It’s high noon at the end of the universe, son! I mean, I’ve never seen that movie, I swear. And if I have, which I haven’t, I certainly never watched it in 3-D Because that would make me Chieftess Loser of Loservania. Although, I guess that would make Dean my Chief, so that might not be so bad.

Further evidence that the Supernatural writers shamelessly appropriated my personality: Dean also, for no reason, when their lives are in peril, quotes Die Hard and does a passable Bruce Willis impression, facial expression and all. First of all, Die Hard: Best Movie Ever. Dean would TOTALLY have gotten my Nakatomi Tower joke. Second, while I’m not exactly a master of mimicry, I think you all know that I’m going to be quoting movies on my friggin deathbed. (It’s true. I’ve actually pondered my last words, assuming that when I kick it, I’ll be in a position to consciously choose them and I’m evenly split between “For a moment there, I thought we were in trouble,” “I wish I could have seen Montana,” and “Death is but a door, time is but a window: I’ll be back.”) Even more damning, when Sam claims ignorance of the Poltergeist haunting rumors, Dean turns to him and says seriously, “You know nothing of your cultural heritage.” I HAVE SAID THAT EXACT PHRASE. Except I was talking about You Can’t Do That on Television.

Sam, of course, wasn’t exactly amused by Dean’s fanboy antics which led to frame after frame of wonderful befuddlement and irritation which never ceases to amuse me. Jonas and I were discussing the Sam/Dan humor dynamic and decided that it greatly resembles its Sci-Fi/Horror predecessor pairing, Mulder & Scully. Scully/Sam plays the straight woman/man to Mulder/Dean and the majority of the laughs we get from Scully/Sam are at the expense of Mulder/Dean’s happy idiocy. JPad and Gillian Anderson both have about 76 different expressions which convey “OMFG. DUMBASS.” Which leads me to a point of annoyance—one of my daily internet stops are the TWoP forums where rampaging hordes of DeanGirls and Acklytes constantly harp on how everyone, as the moderator/recapper puts it, is MEAN TO DEAN, especially Sam. I think Sam Winchester put it best when he jammed his hands in his pockets, rolled his eyes and said “WHATever.” As expected, after this episode aired, posters jumped on the boards to assert their position that Sam is so MEAN TO DEAN and he shouldn’t get irritated when his brother totally ignores him while being a fake PA, nor should he be slightly grossed out by his brother’s atrocious eating habits. Oh, yeah, and after Sam had to put a bullet in the head of the first chick(dog) he’s slept with since a demon turned his fiancée into a flaming ceiling kabob like TWO days ago, Sam should TOTALLY have been happy and smiling when Dean put it to some wall-eyed B-movie actress in her trailer. Right.

Aside from the fact that his reactions conveyed little more than mild annoyance and the over-sensitive DeanLovers who think otherwise need to stop their bitching, Sam’s the little brother! Younger siblings sniping at their older brothers and sisters is like a god-given right! As far as I’m concerned a little bit of ribbing is belated justice for years of wedgies, wet willies, spitty-slurpy and having GODDAMN CHAIRS PULLED OUT FROM UNDERNEATH US, KELA.  Dean’s a grown man, I think he can take the occasional snark from his geek brother and if he can’t, then he’s a total pussy and he needs to butch the fuck up.

Seriously.

While I enjoyed Hollywood Babylon, it left me with a little bit of Meh—it was remarkably out of place, tone-wise. I laughed, sure, but at the back of every Oh, Dean chuckle, part of me was thinking how out of place a random funny episode was in the end of the season arc. I mean, really? Last episode, Sammy breaks down and cries ugly because he has to kill his dog-girl/metaphor for his potential for evil and this week…uh, Dean stuffs his face and cracks inside jokes about Hollywood. I’m not complaining, it just threw me off a little.

Oh, and by the by, I want to stay away from real spoilers because I heard the finale is going to be UNBELIEVABLE. Which, of course, means someone dies or is on the brink of death. Which means it must be Sam because there’s just no suspense with Dean on that one, is there?  What I’m saying here is no spoilers, okay? Spoil me and I will kill you in the face, no joke. (Just on Supernatural, though, feel free to spill the Heroes spoilers left and bloody right.)

Did you hear that?  Off in the distance:  a muffled thump followed by a desperate, keening wail?  That was the sound of Hollywood destroying the very last shred of my childhood.

THERE IS NO GOD.