In Excelsis Gloria Mundane

What follows is complete horrifying vulgar idiocy brainvomit I just felt like writing because I think words are funny, and using way too goddamn many of 'em is even funnier. Your mileage may vary, but rest assured that, terrible as it is, there are much worse things being published exclusively to Kindles.


    Meanwhile, as we sit complacent and allow it to happen, somewhere two men (or perhaps they are handpuppets -- I have a condition which sometimes makes me confused) calling themselves "Shitskull" and "Prevert"  (though these are assuredly not their names because what monstrous parents would name a child such things?  It makes me angry to even think of such a thing happening!  And damn you for even bringing it up!) are reviewing movies that may not even exist.  We cannot stop it, because it's probably not even happening.  I tell a lot of fucking lies.  And everybody hates me for it.  Or do they?

    "A hilarious cavalcade of dung!" cries Shitskull as he introduces the first film, Adolph Hitler: Bicycle Champion.  "This film entertained me more than watching a fat baby try to lick his way through a plexiglas box to get to stack of doughnuts!  Comparing Hitler -- who also only had one testicle -- to Lance Armstrong based on this one thing they have in common (besides, of course, a shared genocidal hatred of gypsies) -- is sheer dimwit genius!  I hope the writer will compose a sequel sometime when he's not too busy building little cities out of his own poo-poo and then stomping on them while roaring that he‘s Godzilla!  Which is something I bet he does, I just get that impression."

    "I disagree!" cried Prevert, waving his cutlass.  "This film is nothing more than a marketing ploy to sell Lego sets of its locations, such as the ice-skating rink, the abortion clinic, the sewage treatment plant, the registrar's office, and Wyoming!  I haven't seen such an atrocity since Daniel Day Lewis was fleeing town because he thought he got Linda Ronstadt pregnant and accidentally shoved all his clothes up Rosie O'Donal's ass because he thought it was his suitcase!  I thought this film would never end!  It seemed longer than Nancy Pfotenhauer's grotesque horror wrist-neck!  By the end, I was actually rooting against Hitler, which is something I thought I would never do!"

    In response, Shitskull thundered, "By God I hate you, there, bouncing in your chair in your excitement of being an idiot!   This is the most wonderful movie that is still a piece of shit since last Tuesday's Billy Finds a Lollipop And Then Murders The Guy With The Hot-Dog Cart, which I STILL maintain is a work of art and not 'a wading pool filled with old-man pee in which Stanley Kubrick could bob for potatoes,' which no one even knows what that MEANS yet we have to suppose it's meant as a negative review... although coming from you we can't be sure, as you are a twisted, perverted homunculus who delights in the filthy things of this world.”

    “You are so stupid, I feel sorry for your pants,” snipped Prevert cattily, “for it’s only a matter of time before you perform some wretched act in them.”

    “Which would no doubt set you off into a clapping fit since defiling pants is your jam, dawg!”

    “Obviously, you are the product of sodomy among clowns.”

    “And you, sir, are the product of digestion.  I wish I could tear out my liver and shake it in your face like a pom-pom as I cheered for your demise by termites.”

    “And you should never have been born.  God damn your mother and the vagabond spastic who was fool enough to mount her.  But I’ll tell you this much, I will  -- if you did shake your liver in my face, it would be much more entertaining than your stupid Hitler-bicycle movie which you love and want to marry.”  At this point Prevert made kissy faces to illustrate Shitskull’s enamoration for this movie that’s not even real.

    “Well, your shabby shitdom aside, it’s time for our next film, Indiana Garden-Rake Massacre, staring Tatum O’Neil, who I’ve never been able to take seriously because the hell kind of name is ‘Tatum’?  It sounds like a command I don’t know how to carry out!  Anyway, I would rather stare into the diseased cunt of Wilford Brimley for ninety-three minutes than watch this exercise in tedium that appears to have been financed with quarters the producer got for showing strangers his tee-tee.  I‘d rather watch wombats fuck for two hours.  Even if I weren‘t a guy who likes watching wombats fuck, I mean.”

    “For once, I agree with you: this is a horrible film!  It’s like watching a murdered child rot, but without the glee.  John Travolta is absolutely terrible in it, although I did enjoy seeing him get his penis stuck in that toaster, which is easily the highlight of the film.”

    “Yes!  It’s the only part I liked, watching him shrieking and flailing about, yelling ‘Oh, my penis!’  In fact, the movie should have been titled Oh, My Penis! because as far as I’m concerned you can cram the rest of this film up director Nathan Borigmi’s urethra and then set it on fire!  I would like to murder him and his entire family with an axe and then masturbate over their corpses.”

    “I’d love to rent a hot air balloon and ride it into the stratosphere and then shit over the side into the bassinet of his sleeping child, that’s how much I hate him for making this movie!”

    “I want to chop off his hands so he can never hold a camera again, then I would go down the street clapping with the severed hands over my head while I danced a jig in the shower of blood!  I‘m pounding down steroids to try to develop enough strength to fling him into the heart of the sun so we can be shed of him!”

    “When I saw this film I renounced Christ for fear that I might have to spend eternity in Heaven with Nathan Borigmi!  Who, if I may say, is a wall-eyed fudpuck of the first magnitude, and probably an alcoholic who treats his wife abominably.  It’s ironic that he made a film about a rake massacre because that’s just what I wanted to do with him as I watched it -- murder him with a rake!”  Clenching his teeth, Prevert furiously hacked at the air with an invisible rake.  It was disturbing to watch.

    “Oh, how I wish I could live in outer space so I didn’t have to share an atmosphere with him!”  Shitskull shook his fists and howled as hatred took him to a place beyond articulateness.

    “Would that I could burn this world to a cinder and eradicate all life to ensure that no alien civilization would have a chance of knowing such a movie had ever happened!”

    “I’m totally sneaking into his house and farting on his toothbrush, I am.”

    “I despise the entire eastern seaboard he was born in, and plan to travel up and down it, slapping  greasy dick-prints onto the cars of everyone who lives there, shrieking like a displeased monkey all the while.”

    “I really dislike him.”
    “As do I.”

    “Anyway, our next film is a sci-fi epic, Silly String Theory, set in an alternate universe where Pomeranians in black leather uniforms are the ruling race.  They oppress the hapless humans, who find it hard to fight back because their oppressors are so cute.  This movie was trite and derivative and I found myself wishing that the film was someone smaller and weaker than me so I could kick it in the stomach and taunt it with threats of further and more depraved violence as it lay writhing in the gutter.”

    “How can you say that?”  Prevert cried, bouncing in his chair.  “I thought this was a WONDERFUL film!  I became so excited whenever a leather-clad Pomeranian appeared on the screen that I had to be restrained and sedated with seconal enemas!  My delight was such that I fired off many squirts of incontinent  happiness-pee.  This was the greatest film since that all-spastic-cast Western that Walt Disney made when he went insane from decades of injecting bourbon into his vans deferens!  I was literally beside myself before the end of this movie, meaning that I was so full of glee that my body had to divide itself into twins like a planarian to contain all my happiness!  If you didn’t like this movie, why, you should be butchered with a series of gardening tools.  Mostly a hoe, like your mother, the unsavory sow.”

    “You liked this shitfeast?  Seriously?  You should murder yourself by wrenching off one of your toadlike little legs and stabbing yourself with the splintered end of the bone!” roared Shitskull.  “I hated this movie so much that I, too, split into twins just to contain all of my hate!  And both of us were flinging our own feces at the screen as we screamed oaths until our lips were foamed with blood from our torn vocal chords!   I will fight you, by God!  I will fight you in the street if you say you liked this film!”

    “I was charmed, delighted, enchanted, and overwhelmed with wonder!”

    “You are a nothing!  I wish I could go back in time to the scene of your birth and shit in your crib until my bones came out!”

    “Delighted, I say!  I watched the whole film like this.”  Prevert clasped his hands under his chin and beamed, fluttering his eyelashes.

    Shitskull pounded on his own knees and fidgeted in anger.  “I could just set you on fire right now.  Oh.  Oh, how I hate you.  Oh.  You pitiful onion of a man.  I would rape you but I couldn’t possibly get an erection while you live.”

    “I can’t wait until it comes out on DVD so I can put it on repeat, staple myself to the couch, and watch it for the remainder of my lifespan, which I hope is incredibly long.”

    “I curse the day your mother’s uterus hawked you forth like a cunt-loogie.  That’s what you were, instead of a baby.  You were not born, you were sharted.”

    “I want to give this movie a great big hug and a kiss and a reacharound!”

    “Well, I want to cram a print of it up my ass so that I can shit it all over a picture of you being eaten by possums!  THAT you can hug!  Hug THAT!”

    “Perhaps I will!”

    “You upset me so much.  I don’t know how I can bear it.”

    “Maybe you won’t.   Perhaps you will flop around in convulsions of unable-to-bear-it-ness until your death is a blessing to us all.  Then maybe we can relax our sphincters without fearing you’ll crawl up in there and make some kind of nest, you foul little caricature of a being.  In any case, our next film stars Rob Schneider and Chuck Norris, and it’s a romantic comedy called Help! I’m a Stupid Asshole!  Because it’s a romantic comedy, Jennifer Anniston is in it.  Jennifer Anniston is every romantic comedy's default setting. And you finally get to see her butt, which is almost as pretty as her face!  I loved this movie so much I had to change my pants three times!”

    “I loved this movie, too!  I had to take out my car keys and use them to gouge my flesh so I wouldn’t become so happy that I would die!”

    “I liked Jennifer Anniston and I liked her butt!”

    “Her butt has personality!  It looks like an aerial view of two bald mongoloids sharing an Oreo, and that’s something I never realized I wanted to see until I saw it!”

    “Even Chuck Norris is good in this movie, because he spends the whole film drinking gutter water and vomiting.  It’s finally a role he can manage.  I’m glad they put him in the film just so I could watch him heave until his diaphragm folded in half.  I also liked the part where the children dropped cinderblocks on his hands over and over again for thirty minutes.”

    “I could have watched an hour of that!  His screaming made me laugh like a little girl who’s seen a boy’s tinkle-thang.   I hope he gets a posthumous Oscar.”

    “He’s not dead.”

    “I know, but Oscar time’s still a way off.  I’m wishing, here!”

    “I also clapped when his pants fell down and you could see that he has a miserable little penis that looks almost exactly like a circus peanut.  And I liked the way he screamed like a provoked inebriate when those ladies laughed and threw nickels at it.”

    “I also like Rob Schneider’s acting.  He reacts to everything  like it’s just hurt him and he’s mad at it.  Doesn’t matter if Jennifer Anniston’s kissing him or a spaniel’s peeing in his face, there’s Rob, cringing away like my maiden aunt being confronted with a ziploc full of pubic hair!”

    “His acting is genius.  He reminds me of a moth flinging itself against a window, persistent and idiotic, trying to break through and convey something.  And then the end credits roll and you realize that there is no moth.  There’s not even a window.”


    “I know, right?  My point exactly!  And he always seems so happy with his pathetic performances, with the misplaced pride of a lunatic gloating over a bucket of dung.   You don’t watch his performances so much as just sit there and let them wash over you like a pestilential rain.  We are the children, and he’s the schoolyard creep handing out the peyote-powder Pixie Stix.  He’s like a gun that shoots stupid, aimed at the audience.”

    “My favorite movie of his has gone overlooked.  Death To The Lollipop Guild.  Remember the one where he played a guy named Bathtowel Brown, who collected walrus poop?  And - outside of the Walrus Doodoo Museum in Trenton, New Jersey -- he had the finest single collection of walrus waste in the country?  His strange little acting quirks really made that film.  Like the bit where whenever he was talking to anyone in the street, he’d tuck his penis into one of their front pockets?  And when they asked him why, he’d say things like ‘it’s cold out here,’ or ‘We’re on the street so I don’t want people to see my penis.’  And by the end of the movie, everyone was telling each other, ‘I wish he’d never even grown that penis. God damn stem cell research, anyway.’  That had a poignancy that we had no right to expect from a film about walrus droppings.  And we have Rob Schneider to thank for it!  It‘s his Slingblade II: Electric Boogaloo, I think.”

    “Wasn’t that the film where he had the ponytail?  That’s a good look for him.  It pulled his face back a bit, made it look like a sack of trash someone’s carrying to the curb.  Bewildered, unpleasantly-damp trash, at that.”

    “Yep!  It was almost as funny as Kathy Griffin isn’t!” 

    “Finally, something we can agree on!”

    “Yes.  It’s a magical day.  I’d still love to sack you up and fling you into a pond like a puppy with a potato-shaped head, but, at least we’ll always have this magical moment.”

    “Yes.  I‘ll treasure it forever, hopefully after your legendary belt-sander accident that enables them to bury you in a cigar box like some unloved hamster.”

    Then they both farted until they ascended into Heaven, and Jesus turned in his two-week’s notice.

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