Fucking Fantastic Phenomenal Film Numero Uno

(1) Rocky III

Growing up, Rocky III was my favourite movie. I realise now that I'm not a child anymore, that this movie is extremely homoerotic and at any given moment you expect Apollo Creed to brick in the Stallion's mouth.
In spite of - or maybe because of - that, I still to this day find Rocky III to be the greatest movie ever made. To prove I'm not gay with that statement, I can tell you I jacked one out to the Ring Girl in the Thunderlips fight. That proves I'm not gay...nor do I want to be. I don't like the idea of a men slapping his junk off my upper lip demanding I relieve him of his frustrations, and I would find such a scenario to be socially awkward.
Back on topic, this movie made me want to run marathons, made me want to punch people who were bigger than me in the face, and made me want to wear a pair of semi-tight black 1980's soccer shorts and run down the beach with my packagular bulge flopping around. Which brings me to my next point - In the scene where Rocky and Apollo are running down the beach in slow motion in belly tops and shorts, where is The Stallions package? There are gratuitous close ups of both Apollo's and Rocky's packages as they run, and The Stallion is preposterously inferior to the Master of Disaster's. Apollo's package looks like there's a Rugby team having a scrum in his pants, but then it goes to Rockys and it's rather disheartening to see a hero of mine, an idol, with nothing, not even a derisory camel toe, to speak of.
Why would Stallone, as director, include this in the final shot? Could he not have at least sellotaped bratwurst around that area and then ran?
What this proves to me, after Rocky has his crisis, beats Clubber Lang (which by the way, is a magnificent name for a penis) yadda yadda, and Rocky and Apollo square up for their friendly rematch (Ding Ding!), Apollo won because he is more man than Rocky due to his insanely robust penis.
Great movie all the same.

Fantastico Phenomenonillo Filimo's (4 through 2)

(4) The Matrix

Gun-Fu, Flo-Mo, Bullet Time. Call it what you will but this little doozy of a flick was a verbal cumshot into my virginal eyes, launched a plethora of imitators and even gave lunatics and whack jobs the world over an excuse to sniper rifle the fuck out of people, and even launch their own religions based on the 'theology', 'idealogy' and iconography of this movie.
I didn't want to start my own cult after watching it in the cinema, but I did want to go home and pull the stomach out of myself to the thoughts of Trinity in her leather outfit.
I'm no film critic, but I know what I like and this is the only film that when I walked out as the credits rolled to Rage Against The Machine's Wake Up, I had goosebumps on my undercarriage, rang a different friend and went and bought a ticket to the next show that evening.
Exciting, thought provoking, bullet time, Fishburne talking in parables, Keanu saying 'Huh?' a lot all the while he's whipping ass like a champion, and Carrie-Anne Moss in leather...so much leather that I'd lick the stench of new leather and sweaty fish from her panties.
That is all.

(3)28 Days Later

This was one of the best movies of recent times, because I said so.
Let me tell you, it had Zombies/Infected...that ran! It had a believable concept as to the outbreak of the "infected". A wonderful score by the brilliant John Murphy. Alex Garland can do no wrong in my eyes, so it was a winner from the off with me. The pseudo claustrophobia of the opening sequence and the sheer tension of the final third was a masterclass in filmmaking despite when the 'zombie geeks' think.
Zombies shouldn't run, my bollox. That's like saying athletes shouldn't walk to the shops for some, I don't know, Brillo Pads.
A great bonus for men who suffer with severe cases of penis envy is that Cillian Murphy is nude in it and his penis looks like an oversized clitoris, so if you watch this with your lady and you feel your junk is painfully average, when she see's this you can turn to her with hope, arrogance and lie with aplomb while saying "That's the average male penis size" and she will think you are hung like a moose and proceed to Combat School the life out of your penis.

(2) Aliens

I take back what I said about Arnie having the most manly roar known to man. I think that accolade is reserved for Sigourney Weaver after her 'loader' fight with the Queen Bitch at the end of the flick. "Hurrrawwwwwwwww" "RAWWWWWWWWWWWWW" "COMMMMME ONNNNNNN" "RAGGGGHHHHH". I tell ya, if you were between the sheets with Siggy Wee I'd say she'd laugh at your - and my - best. "Are you in yet? HUUURRRRAAAWWW"
Basically, this was my favourite film of all time since childhood and in many ways, it still is even though the first 40 minutes are incredibly boring, but necessary. It's when you first meet the marines aboard the Sulaco that things really kick into gear. It's movies like this that remind you why James Cameron is who he is and can do what he can do. I mean, let's face it, the man revolusionised movies with each step he took. From Pirahna 2 to the Abyss to Titanic, and now a little film called Avatar.
Basically Aliens has it all...except titties. The Aliens, designed by Sir Giger, are phallic based and obviously based on Lexington Steele's Penis. Bill Paxton's Hudson still remains my favourite character in movie history, to the point that when he's killed in it, I used to turn the video off. Paul Reiser's Burke is so sleazy and conniving that you hope a facehugger impants one of those shits down his japs eye and Michael Biehn...well Michael Biehn is a gent and the thinking man's action hero for a thinking man's action movie. Shame about the lack of titties though, but if you're looking for some cheap love making to your hand, then rent Half Moon Street with Sigourney Weaver. She gets her titties and her oddly compelling, little strange shaped cheeks out while she's sweating on an exercise bike.

10 Most Fantastically Phenomenal FIlms...(10 through 5)

(10) Snakes On A Plane :

Does what it says on the tin really, wouldn't you think. It has snakes, a plane, Kenan from Kenan & Kel, Sammy Jackson, Elsa Pataky's perfect face and some titties. I don't ask for much, and that ticked all my boxes.
From the off it has violence and oozes substance and sweaty man appeal!
A masterclass in cheesy action, suspense and the line "Enough is enough! I've had it with these muthafuckin' snackes on this muthafuckin' plane!" is possibly the most poignant line delivered in celluloid history.
You can take your "hilarious" Woody Allen quotes and your Paul Thomas Anderson pathetic pseudo melodrama's and wipe your crusty semen from the sock under your bed on them, coz I don't want to know about them.

(9) Irreversible

There comes a time in a man's life when he has to witness the good grace of Bellucci's Bangers. Monica Bellucci gets nude. Monica Bellucci has 'surprise' anal sex against her will. Some Gallic sausage jockey gets his head bashed in with a fire extinguisher...repeatedly. Monica Bellucci gets nude. If you pause the dvd and use the zoom function in the seconds after her unwelcome shot in the Sherrifs Badge, you can actually see her stinkhole. Fantastic...and unexpected.

(8) 50 First Dates

Now, I understand the severity of said movie on said list and regardless of the meterosexual connotations of having such a movie so high on my list of all time greats is ludicrous, BUT, it's such a wonderful 2 hours of your life. Every time the ending hits, when that Hawaiian version of 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow' begins to play, my throat closes up and swells like I have a black penis rammed down there against my will while somebody holds my nose closed. The pain and discomfort of trying to hold in the tears of happiness and joy to save face in front of whoever I'm watching it with, is sheer torture. I'm a sucker for Sandler, and I'd let Drew Barrymore take a dump on my chin if she so wanted, so this was a winner all around.

(7) Payback

Mel Gibson hits the most vicious kidney punches know to man, kills a lot of people with style, grace and finesse, is tortured and in the process has his foot bludgeonedd to something resembling 'roast beef', does a gravely voiced noir-ish voiceover, gets one over on crooked cops, get's his 70K back and lands the girl.
What more do you want? 3D? Fuck yourself!

(6) Predator

Not only does it posess the 2nd greatest Score in celluoid history (take a bow, Alan Silvestri) but is in my opinion, the utlimate movie for the ultimate Alpha Male. Gratuitous arm wrestle muscle shot between Apollo Creed and Arnie. A tie is insulted. Arnie and his elite squad of commando's go into a jungle. People are skinned alive. Arnie delivers pun after pun. An Alien who sees in ZX Spectrum Vision and looks like a 7ft tall ninja Rasta stalks them and kills Shane Black and his spectacles. Blows a sizzle hole through Jessie Ventura's chest. Bill Duke annihilates a wild pig with the knife he uses to shave himself like a real man using his own sweat for shaving cream. If it bleeds, they can kill it. Apollo Creed gets onside and more gratuitous muscle shots follow as they assert their Alpha Male status in front of that South American chick by pulling down trees with their bare hands and biceps. Bill Duke takes one in the face. Apollo Creed's arm is blown off and he is skewered like a kebab from a street vendor. Billy the Indian who's obviously hung like a complex inducing cucumber and has balls like a jackfruit stalls the Predator by taking out his knife and cutting his left pectoral. Predator shoots the skinny one in the face. Arnie tells South American Chick to 'Rrrruuunnnn, Get to da choppppaaaahhhh' in the second most most masculine roar known to human existence. Arnie falls over two waterfalls and gets caked in muck. Predator can't see him in his ZX Spectrum Vision. Arnie takes him on mano y mano, like any real man would by making traps and explosive weapons out of trees, leaves and a slight amount of gunpowder. What follows is the moment every man aspires to, and if they don't, they're obviously gay. Arnie, with his torch lighting and against the odds calls out the 7ft Alien with the single most valorous, virile, gallant roar ever commited to humanity while holding his lighting torch aloft. A lot of cat and mouse combat ensues. The tension is unparalleled. Predator demasks and like a real Alien man, decomissions his superior weapons as an obvious mark of respect for Arnie's roar. One ugly motherfucker, evidently. Predator beats Arnie to a pulp in ZX Spectrum Vision and Arnies once heroic roars for some reason sound like whimpers in high speed dubbing. Arnie lures the big lug to the traps. Predator too smart. Arnie too smart. Log on face. Blood that looks like a Berocca induced piss seeps from the Predator. Big hearty Billy laugh. Explosion. Super Action Movie dive by Arnie. Fade to black. Hero music. Arnie leans on tree. Arnie delivers the best acting of his career in the final scene as he stares out the window with with a look of sorrowful resignation and dirt caked on his face. Credits where everyone smiles at the camera, except Arnie. No titties though.

(5) Crank 2

Jason Statham. No Heart. Shotguns up Samoan stinkholes. King Mike Patton score. Amy Smart's bumcheeks. Amy Smart's nipple tape. More titties. Violence. A horses cock. Numerous references to Chev Chelios' superior phallus. Running. Frenetic pace. Statham's Chelios is the greatest Superhero who ever lived. Burns to a crisp. Eyes open. Fin.

What Women Want?

If you had a vaginal opening, or if you're a gay male and would like your farts to sound like wind blowing into a half full milk bottle, which penis would you choose? The sturdy, girth laden and unsung Bolshevik, or the Gym shower friendly, deceptive Faber Castel?

"Sent From My Fisher Price PC"

There seems to be some sort of borderline fascist fad these days that's annoying me. Maybe because I'm poor and have a grasp on technology that's six years prior to the present, but, this new wave of 'faux furor' is sickening. It's ike an aggressive, yet redundant form of forced fellating. "My social status is better than yours. Here, take this 450 Jiggabop sized penis extension down your throat!" :
"Sent from my Iphone / Blackberry / Droid / R2D2 / Verizon Wireless Blackberry / Bowl of Fucking Muesli"

What does that mean? Does it mean that the person who sent this message from any of the above appliances is better equipped than me? Does it mean they can eat swan or deer and not feel guilty? Does it mean that they reside in an upper class sesspit of backslapping and pink coloured alcoholic drinks? Or could it all be farce.
Could they be sitting behind a chugging, whirring PC that when you turn it on, it sounds like a pneumatic drill having sex with a farm animal, on their Free Text Network site, manually typing "Sent from my [insert appliance here]" at the end of each text to quantify their social standing? What is it? I don't understand. I have a better grasp on Pi(π) than I do on the concept and sheer obnoxiousness of this statement at the end of every text message!
Please, for the sake of your own dignity, stop this madness.

Up In The Air? Down In The Squirts of Diarrhea...

Last night, there was some guttersnipe on TV called Operation Transformation. It's another program in which clinically obese people strive to become thin(ner)...and cry in the process, all the while some Hollywood music plays in the background, heightening the 'emotion' of a given situation they are subjected to.
It's all very frightening.
i.e. : Fat person tries to climb a rope while a sliver of radish hangs out of his bottom lip? Que, say, James Horner's score from 'Aliens'.

Or if a fat person only loses 1lb instead of their target 5lb, a wallowing, sombre tune from say, 'The Notebook' will build up in the background and reach a crescendo as said obese person turns into a quivering wreck, while his or her colleagues/competitors offer condolences with an astute twinkle of glory in their eyes.

Anyway, while that remorseless drivel played out in front of my eyes, I watched a George Clooney movie - Up In The Air - which will be met with a twinkle in all the ladies of the world's eye and a sudden urge to change their damp undercrackers due to the mere mention of Mr.Clooney's name.

To cut a very long, boring story short (Let's face it, nobody wants to read about the queue for the food, the old person sitting beside you who smells like Horlicks and boiled cabbage, or even the trailers for the movie...), the movie started and I can respect the fact that George Clooney is a very handsome man, with a magnificently dulcet voice and a rumoured big junk. I'll even go as far to say I think the man, on his day, is a fantastic actor (O Brother, From Dusk Til Dawn, his shmoozing in Out of Sight) but this movie from start to finish was horrific. I hadn't been that bored since (a) I had a house to myself, no porn and just my imagination, which isn't as fertile as it once was and (b) when I watched A Beautiful Mind.
From start to finish, it was nonsense. Nonsense! Like, Clooney's very presence causes the females in the movie to reassess their whole viewpoint on life. In airports! That's a very short sighted, narrow minded view on the movie, but it's the only view I have. Okay, so the extremely talented and beautiful Vera Farmiga strips off in it, which was nice, and I spent the rest of the movie wondering what colour her rusty bullet hole was (That pinkish colour, or the full on brown colour.) and what it would smell like. And THAT was the extent of my excitement while watching this critically lauded movie.

But come on, surely critics can shoot in their pants over Ninja Assassin. Which by the looks of the trailer deserves every award on the planet. Including Best Dressed, The Nobel Peace Prize and Friendliest Neighbour award.
So that's me for today. Between obese people exercising and crying, George Clooneys handsome bottom lip and Vera Farmiga's scented dumphole, it was a rather uneventful night.
Game over. Ball burst.

Jody & Herbert Rock Out With Their Cocks Out

"Flame is the gaaaaame. The game we call Gaaaaaslightinnnng Abbieeee. It's a lucious invention for freeeeeee...one summer by the seeeea."

Suckle the Radish and the Custard Will Flow...

Masturbation of the Alpha Male, by the Omega Female:

It's inevitable - if you stroke a penis, be it with tenderness or an overly rambunctious sprightliness - either a robust explosion or an execrable dribble of spent goop will seep from the male epithelial duct (or 'jap eye' for the layman).

In porn, (or coitus for the gainfully employed, if you will) following fellatio/hand job, a female will be the willing beneficiary of an airburst of male reproductive fluid (in the adult film industry, said celluloid ejaculate is roundly known as the 'pop shot') onto her chin/nose/eyebrow and/or fringe/bosom/navel/foot, or in extreme cases, her earhole. (If the male abnegator is that way inclined in the heat of the moment.)
These females are finely tuned athletes, well trained in the coital and masturbatory arts and willing participants in domination, submission and, in these cases, degradation. Although it may not look like it, they are the ones who are always in control of the Alpha Male, and the frantically impending release of seminal fluid from his 'apparatus urogenitalis'.
Post fellatio/hand job, these ladies appreciate the value of male secreted yoghurt which ultimately will find temporary residence on their face.
And why not? They are well paid for this seminal multitasking.



Now, back to reality:
Many females feel the need to vigorously use the male reproductive organ as something akin to that of a Commodore 64 Joystick whilst playing the game Combat School or Daley Thompson's Decathlon. Although you may put it up to naivety or sheer innocence, personally I think it's all rather insidious on their part.



The males contorted, shameful grimace of excruciating distress in this kind of situation is usually misconstrued by the female as being one of redoubtable pleasure. If the male, is too 'shy' or afraid of causing offense to his partner, he endures this test of resoluteness, valour and courage against all the odds. A feat he is to be commended for, nonetheless.



There is a downside to this, however, as the more the male lets this nonchalant disregard for his yop-cannon/penis continue, the harder (Excuse the pun) it will be for him to eventually 'fess up and address this unnecessary torment, and for that, he should be scorned as his Alpha Male status comes into question.



I'm going back to caveman mentality here, but can you imagine this scenario:
It's a third date. You bring your potential lady out to dinner. A posh, romantic restaurant nonetheless. One that has a piano, and elevator/supermarket versions of Now That's What I Call Love 42 over it's speakers. Flamingo's serving cubed cheese and little French waiters carving goose with diamond encrusted knives.
You order the wine, or better yet, the finest bottle of champagne they have and you both order the gazpacho soup and melon for starters. You discuss how wonderful it is to be alive, to be together and how attracted you are to each other. All this gazing into each others eyes, and wonderful what have you's and what not's. You know, random ego inflating topics. Stuff that a great relationship is built on, until a year later when you're pulling the stomach out of yourself to the thought of someone you saw at a bus stop somewhere.
Back on point, the main course arrives and she has ordered, I don't know, a lettuce leaf, more melon and some red onion, while you have ordered a steak...rare...with a near raw potato and some turnip, because you're a man. The topic of conversation changes to you advising her that you once ate the hind steak off a male Silverback Gorilla. One that you wrestled to the ground, subdued and killed by yourself, with your bare hands and a Swiss army knife.
This is all part of foreplay and with that tale of heroism, she is even more attracted to you...to the point where she is nearly sliding off her chair in this posh restaurant. She tells you about how her little nephew fell out of a tree and landed and fractured his toe, and all the while, you're wondering if her labia hangs down like an untucked office shirt, or if it's nice and compact. You nod and smile politely. She has found herself a winner.
You both share a dessert, you pay the bill, you stand up when she stands up to leave and place your hand on the small of her back and let her leave the restaurant first. Then you both agree that the pubs, bars and clubs will probably be too packed, and a taxi home to her place for a bottle of Chablis and movie seems the most viable and appealing option.
After more conversation on her sofa, you both get that electric feeling in your little tummies and you begin to kiss heavily. Hands wander and she climbs on top for a dummy ride. You're wearing zip jeans and as she's grinding into you, your zipper on your jeans is also taking lumps out of your junk and you're moaning in both pleasure and searing, ludicrous pain but you put up with it...because any minute now she's going to lead you to her bedroom. And she does.
You go into the bedroom and you both strip each other in a heated, almost panicked embrace. She lies you on the bed and starts kissing your chest, your belly, your groin and finally she begins to do what feels like a budgie tentatively pecking on your helmet. No coverage of shaft, nothing. So you think "Although a let down, it's good for me because she obviously hasn't been chugging a lot of penis!".
Then you pull her head up, feigning ecstasy and tell her to touch it. She does and begins the Combat School/Commodore Joystick approach to masturbation. The pain is incredible...like having your undercarriage stripped with the back end of a rusty hammer and dipped in vinegar. You've had enough...you can't take it anymore.
You romantically pull her up to you and say lie back. She does, and for all the men in the world who have been where you've just been, you kiss her thighs, run your tongue up and then pull back and deliver a crushing haymaker right into her clitoris.






Again, back to reality.
Females in the real world, never embrace the yop. Nor can we expect them to. Sure how can we? A vast majority of them fellate you like they were a cat licking a bowl of milk it knows is sour!

So my advice, for what it's worth

Men: Tell them you won't ask for a birthday or Christmas present if you can forcefully shoot your Tippex onto the part of her anatomy of your, or her choice (the latter being the gentlemanly approach to the situation). Chances are, that by the time either celebratory event is upon you, she will have forgotten about your agreement.
Also, remember to reassure your female partner that your semen is full of protein and that animal semen is used in their moisturiser (A little known fact, by the way). Bottom line - If monkey semen is good enough for their skin, then surely, your semen is too. It's that simple.

Women: (See above)

Moments Before A Rape

Malbranque P.I.

Take The Pants Back!

There's a common misconception that a penis makes a man.
This is, on some levels true, especially if the male is hung like a moose. A man who is hung like said member of the deer family, need not worry about having their manhood or masculinity challenged by his partner/girlfriend/wife, because the mammoth size of his phallus is the only answer he will need to rebuff ANY scorning from his partner.
(see diagrams below)







This breed of Superior Alpha-Male, only needs to drop his pants in front of his lady and any argument, any judgement, and contempt over the fucking toilet seat being left up, is deemed null and void. Terminated.
To these men, we raise a glass, we toast them (See - Shelton Benjamin, Lexington Steele, John Holmes, or every black man on this planet) and their superiority over us lesser endowed males...and Jude Law.

For the majority of us men (who don't have the ego boosting luxury of walking bowlegged due to the mass juggernaut of hulking meat between our legs), we must approach our female counterparts, and their obsession to control us, in a different manner.
Make no mistake, no matter what the initial premise and promise of a relationship is, the classic, perennial female will attempt to change you (Your clothing, your hair, your hobbies, your mobile phone, your food and general restaurant of preference).
She will attempt to destroy your soul and even go so far as to remove you, to strip of your dignity and everything you once loved about being an 'individual'. Therein lies a key word. Individual.
In-di-vid-u-al - Existing as a distinct entity.
Every single one of us men on this planet have been born into individuality, but somewhere, somehow, we lose track of that. I blame the vagina. The promise of regular sex, and some unknown blind fear of the female species has us whipped into a indgignant and compromising submission of our individual opinions.

All of the above leads to the below:
"Why don't you wear this?"
"Maybe change your hair"
"Why do you curse so much?"
"Why do you listen to that music?"
"I don't want you to do it. I want you to WANT to do it."
All of the above questions, I have been on the receiving end of, a plethora of times.
I have a fucking question of my own that I'd like answered, but never asked, because I'm a gentleman :
"Why does your vagina smell of upriver salmon when you're turned on?"

I've seen it, and I've lived it. It doesn't take a man to stand there and get the earholes beat off him with incessant moaning and inarticulate verbage from his female counterpart. It takes a man to stand up, push her head, with covinction, down to his junk and say "See that! Small or not, I wear the fucking pants. This is where your babies will come from and this gig is over, unless you start showing me, and King Arthur, some respect!"

Alternatively, during sex, you can just pull out as your ejaculate is impending, shoot your man-porridge all over her upper lip and nostrils, and show her who's boss. Let her know, and reassure her that you won't compromise HER dignity with a surprise deposit, a burden, an immoral blast of semen onto her face again, if she never tries to change you again.
Again, 50/50 relationship. Compromising is key, except when it comes to dignity and the ownership of higher testosterone levels.



Another alternative (this is for those who like the mildly kinky side of sex), and for the purpose of phsyical comedy - You could blindfold and tie up said scrumpet, ask her to open her mouth and then surprise her with a valiant, triumphant teabagging.

Be a man, take your trousers back. Either get a penis enlargement or stand by what you have between your legs and let her know, you're a man, an individual. You were born as you are and are as you will always be. You're not changing for her, or her vagina. Take a stand, take your trousers back.

Hung-Gliding

L'Eiffel Peepee

Blog - What A Horrible Sounding Word

Blog - It sounds like a slang word for a deficative sexual game. Like, the male lies on his back, rolls out some tin foil and places it on his chest while his female partner squats over him in some remedial yoga position and drops the remnants of last nights Shephards Pie, out of her heaving anus and onto the tin foil, for some sexual thrill that I'll personally never understand.

Well, this is my first post. And quite arrogantly, I am talking to no-one in particular. Rather, just whoever may stumble across this fantastically self indulgent blog. Phenomenal how the human mind works, isn't it?
I start a blog with the utmost delusions of grandeur. Thank you.