DAMAGED Goods: TACO BELL'S NEW BACON CHEESY POTATO BURRITO!!!

I have kinda sworn off bacon. Don't get me wrong, I love bacon and all it's pork deliciousness, but it has been co-opted by the hipster crowd and, like everything they co-opt, has been over-saturated and emasculated to the point of irritation. I can only picture them, jerking off to Lady Gaga while wearing their white 80s shades and neckerchiefs while frying bacon and wrapping them in Twinkies to post a Twit-pic of. I have to go into hiding about my bacon-love, keeping behind closed doors, a secret enjoyment that is only shared between me, my frying pan and my God.

So you can understand my hesitation about walking into a Taco Bell to order their new Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito, or, as I call it, the “BachPoBo”, for brevity's sake. I donned a disguise—fake mustache, trenchcoat, blonde wig—and slowly, inconspicuously, walked to the counter. Great! The d-bag running the register has go a lip-ring, multi-colored hair and his boxers are peeking out of his standard issue black work-slacks. They went well with his checker-pattern Oxfords.

Assuming a very deep voice and the nom de plume Guy Incognito, I placed my order for the “Bachpobo”, to go. The smell wafting through the bag immediately caused my mouth to water. A swirl of different tasty scenarios ran through my mind as I looked for a dark alley way to taste this new concoction. I parked and opened up my wrapper. It didn't look like this:



Instead, it looked like this:



But, to be fair, at this point in my life I am used to photographic misrepresentation, but the guy who made mine didn't even try. So the taste...let me just say that if the cook cared, it would have been a very good, extremely tasty burrito, as it perfectly captures the salty essence of fresh bacon. But, it was dry. Soooooooo dry. It didn't live up to the “cheesy” portion of it's name, I didn't see no sour cream and I had to use five packets of mild sauce to lube it down my throat. The final packets I literally squirted into my mouth, TOMMY BOY-style. This could have been the primo fast food release of the year, but a total disregard for preparation has relegated it to the “fail” pile. Sorry, but: salty bacon + dry potato and burrito = ruining what should have been a life-changing experience.

Maybe I should just lock the door, turn up the Steely Dan and make my own. How hard can it be? Tortillas, cheese, bacon, potatoes...

MUCHO REFRESCO!: THE DAMAGED 2.0 GUIDE TO MEXICAN STORE SODAS, VOL. 1

MUCHO REFRESCO!: THE DAMAGED 2.0 GUIDE TO MEXICAN STORE SODAS, VOL. 1
By Louis Fowler

For over 29 years, I have drank exclusively diet sodas. No, not because I am really on a diet, even though for the love of God I should be, but because I have never really liked the syrupy taste of American sodas. Even as a child, the taste of regular Coke or Pepsi in a can or bottle has always had the power to make me wince and hack. Maybe it has to do with the fact that my mother only allowed diet soda in the house so I am used to it, I don’t know.

But, as of two or three years ago, even diet sodas have started to make me gag. The only one I can really drink now is Diet Dr. Pepper, but it has to be ice cold and in a can. Anything else just sickens me.

It started when I began noticing a chemical, chorine-ish taste in the back of my mouth. Doing a little research, I really think that it is the aspartame. When warm, not only does aspartame become poisonous (Aspartic Acid 40%, Phenylalanine 50%, and Methanol 10%), but when it breaks down in your stomach, it basically becomes Formaldehyde. After years of downing these like there's no tomorrow, there may be no tomorrow! I am screwed, and I’m not even counting the supposed brain tumors.

So what’s a guy who likes soda supposed to do? How about making a run for the border? Or, better yet, making a run to your nearest Mexican grocery store, where they import glass-bottled sodas that usually use real sugar and real fruit juices as opposed to artificial sweeteners and artificial flavors. A one liter bottle will typically run you about $1.75—only a little more than an American one liter. The only thing that will probably hold you back is your intense fear of all things brown. But, when you think about it, what’s worse: dying quickly in a Mexican gang drive-by or having a long, drawn-out painful death due to aspartame-induced cancer?

The deeper I get into the Mexican soda underworld, the more I know how daunting and confusing it can be for the uninitiated. Here’s a handy guide to sodas found in most Mexican stores. Part one, of course.

MEXICAN COCA-COLA

I hate Coke in plastic bottles. Hate it. It gets warm so fast and never really tastes right, leaving an unpleasant burning sensation in my gut. Cans of Coke are maybe just a tad more passable, but still, nothing in the world can compare to an ice cold Coke in a glass bottle—especially if it's imported from Mexico where they still use sugar. Yeah, real sugar. Cane sugar.

And yes, it is the sugar that makes it taste and feel better. Can we all agree that “high fructose corn syrup” or “aspartame” just doesn't match up to the real thing? And while other soda companies like Pepsi are catching on, releasing limited edition Pepsi “Throwback”, with real sugar, it's sadly limited edition and impossible to find; I'm no health nut, but, to me, real sugar seems a whole heck of a lot less “unhealthy” than high fructose corn syrup. On top of that, just try to find Pepsi Throwback! Looking high and low, I've never even seen a bottle once—you've probably had the same problem too. So here's an idea: put away your fears of a vato-shanking and cut out the middle-man and just go to a Mexican store and buy a case of Mexican Coke.

Sadly, according to Slashfood, the a-holes over at Coke are “continually trying to stop the importation of those soft drinks into the U.S. for fear that they'll compete with the sodas bottled here.” Get 'em while you can.

MEXICAN PEPSI

I can't remember too clearly, but it was either Billy Idol or Billy Joel who said “Rock'n'rolla cola wars, I can't take it anymore!” Maybe it was Billy Squier. I don't know. But, whoever said it made a good point: seriously Coke and Pepsi, can we please put down our arms and just enjoy both of you? Possibly at once? Even better, can you guys maybe create a new drink that mixes both together in one bottle? We can call it “Pepske”. Maybe “Coksi”. I'll let you guys decide.

The only reason why I bring up the “Cola Wars” is because after drinking Mexican Coke, you gotta try Mexican Pepsi. Well, if you can find the right kind, that is. Depending on where it's bottled, some have cane sugar like the Cokes, some have High Fructose Corn Syrup or, like the one I've got here, “High Fructose Corn Syrup and/or Sugar”. I don't know what that means...does this have both, for extra flavor or maybe one or the other? Like I am supposed to be guessing or something? Sorry, Mexican Pepsi, but I don't have time for these types of games! What’s not a game though is how pure and delicious it tastes.

Funny enough, the American wing of PepsiCo has released “Pepsi Natural”. Like Pepsi Throwback, I have never been about to find it, but apparently it has an even better taste than Throwback, and probably Mexican Pepsi, actually, as it is made with sparkling water, sugar and kola nut extract, all served in a glass bottle! Someone send me a case of this!

MEXICAN SPRITE

Look, I am not a fan of Sprite in any incarnation. Even if I did enjoy the refreshing lemon-lime taste, any chance of a positive review has been thrown out the window due to their irritating commercials that I have to sit through before every movie I go see. Edgy soda commercials aimed at urban markets put to the music of an Alterbridge-soundalike band will only make me hate you.

As for the drink, even though it is produced by the Coca-Cola Company, like the Mexican Pepsi, it too contains some mixture of “High Fructose Corn Syrup and/or Sugar”. Even if there is sugar in it, it doesn't save it. If anything, this should be more lemony than the American version than anything else—have you seen what Mexicans consider candy? That Limon salt with a duck on it is a huge seller! It's just a lemon/lime powder you put on your finger and lick off. Couldn't you have put a bit of that in your Mexican variation, Sprite? NEEDS MORE LEMON.

JARRITOS

Probably the most popular non-Coke Mexican soda, Jarritos—which means “jugs”, tee-hee, in English—besides being the name of a Mexican urban gang whose graffiti was all over my textbook at Northwest Classen High School, is also typically available in many non-Mexican store outlets, such as Wal-Mart or chain grocery stores like King Soopers, for about 80 cents a hit. How they can do this and Mexican Coke can't is beyond me—I don't care to study the contract negotiations and all that—but, for a cheap, fruity refreshing soda sold in an ice cold bottle, you couldn't do better.

There are numerous flavors of Jarritos, from tutifruti (fruit punch) and pina (pineapple) to sandia (watermelon) and, what I'm drinking right now, jamaica, which has an unique, if acquired, flavor derived from Hibiscus tea. Now I have never had real Hibiscus tea, but one time in a Mexican taqueria they had this “jamaica” drink that they served out of a barrel and I think it was the iced tea variation of Hibiscus tea. Very bitter, like I had just stuck a flower in my mouth. The sugars and carbonation really serve it well. It would have to.

I would love to try tutifruti, but it is always sold out.

MANZANITA SOL

Remember that 80s soda called Slice? I do. I remember it everyday. My parents used to buy it like it was going out of style, which makes sense in retrospect, because it obviously was. Man, did they have some great flavors...mandarin orange, pineapple, “Dr. Slice” and, my favorite, apple. APPLE SODA?!?! WHHAAAAA?

Yes, apple soda. I love apple soda. I'd like to buy the world an apple soda. I'd like to buy the world a Manzanita Sol. What makes it so good? Like the bottle says, “Con Jugo Natural”—I think that mean “with natural juice”. How much natural juice is in there exactly, who knows. But really, especially in comparison to other sodas with all their artificial flavors and whatnot, that little bit of natural juice really makes this pop, well, pop! It's like drinking a crisp, farm-fresh apple that's been on the top shelf of your fridge for a couple of hours, all that cold air blowing on it, making it nice and frosty, with every bite better than the last as juice juts out the side of your jowls. But as a carbonated liquid. No wonder this is the second biggest soda in Mexico!

INCA KOLA

Dubbed the “Golden Kola”, probably due to it's resemblance to fresh urine, Inca Kola is the biggest soda pop in Peru. Currently, it's the biggest soda pop in my household. I cannot get enough of it. But I have to: it's insanely pricey—a six-pack is five dollars, and that was from a Mexican store in Denver's Mile High Flea Market. Normally I would have to balk at it because of this, but it is so tasty that I can’t help but crave more. Maybe it’s the “Golden Soda” because it’s like drinking pure treasure in every sip!

It can alternately be described as having a “bubble-gummy” taste, or, as I prefer, cream soda without the bite—I hate that bite—with a wonderfully sickly-sweet aftertaste. It doesn’t burn and it doesn’t leave you hollow. It goes great with tacos, especially pork, oddly enough. I bet it is awesome with the traditional Peruvian dish of cuy relleno, which is guinea pig stuffed with parsley, black mint, mint, oregano, green onions, cleaned and boiled innards, and crushed toasted peanuts. Mmmmmm...cuuuuuuuuuy...

JOYA

Who doesn't love a crisp, tangy grapefruit soda? I sure do, but, for some reason, Fresca always gives me a headache and Squirt makes me feel like I have to poop almost immediately. Once again, I am going to blame the artificial sweeteners, because, well, that's the easiest thing to do. Just when I had given up on finding a new grapefruit soda to fill the empty void that is my life…here comes sweet lady Joya. This is how you do a grapefruit soda!

It has a real sour, real grapefruit taste that is mixed ever so slightly with a certain sweetness—oh, look, real sugar!—creating a perfect blend that has no aftertaste and no sticky, gummy taste in your mouth. When you get a citrus soda, you want it to taste like some poor, underpaid sweatshop worker has sliced a grapefruit in half and has painstakingly squeezed the juice into a bottle of carbonated water. So easy to do…leave it to Latin America to get it right! That’s one more point for cheap exploited labor.

TO BE CONTINUED! VIVA AZÚCAR VERDADERO!

PASSENGERS: Anne Hathaway is my co-pilot.

PASSENGERS
Starring Anne Hathaway, Patrick Wilson, David Morse
Directed by Rodrigo Garcia
Sony Pictures Home Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

Anne Hathaway is what? 15? 16 years old? Without going to look it up, I'm gonna be generous and say that she's 17. Why do I ask this? Because, in the abysmal PASSENGERS, we're supposed to believe that she's a psychologist with two Masters and a PhD. And from reputable universities I presume, not from the Learning Annex. Shouldn't this make for a character around, I don't know...at the youngest, um, 30?

Hathaway is not that great an actress to begin with, but add the stress of having to appear “smart” and she is waaaaay out of her element. She's damn-near in Tera Reid territory. But, in all fairness, it does make for an entertaining film. It's like watching a little kid play dress-up and, look, how cute, she's conned adults into playing with her! It's far too much suspension of disbelief for people with rational thought, and apparently the mainstream public agrees with me, because PASSENGERS was a nice-sized bomb. You can't fool the public all the time and all that.

The movie pits “psychologist” Hathaway in a room with a small band of airplane crash survivors. They all come from the beloved stereotype stockpile that screenwriters resort to—the tough girl, the shaky guy, etc.—and are lead by the once-affable Patrick Wilson, whom you may remember as Nite-Owl from WATCHMEN. (Sadly, now I'll always remember him as that bland, boring dude from PASSENGERS.) You would think that, as the survivors of the crash start disappearing, this would be a wholly important plot point, but it's barely made mention of, as, instead, we're treated to an hour of Hathaway and Wilson woodenly flirting with each other while a shadowy-but-not-really-threatening representative of the airline follows them around. Or does he? Duhn-dun-DUUUUUNNNN!

In the last fifteen minutes or so we get two or three buffoonishly clumsy twist endings in order to justify the DVD's already-printed label of “shocking psychological thriller”. Each ending is so wonderfully idiotic, they are so ridiculous—one pulled-out-of-the-ass thing is piled on top of the next in such a beautifully rapid succession that they play more as a parody of these types of “are-they-ghosts-or-aren't-they” flicks. I was waiting the whole time for the Carmen Electra cameo and the credits “written by Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer”. But they were serious. They were so very serious. And thank them for that!

It's that straight-faced seriousness that makes PASSENGERS' cream rise to the top; it's Hathaway's best-worst performance since HAVOC—as a matter of fact, this would make a great double-feature with Lindsay Lohan's I KNOW WHO KILLED ME, although, sadly, Hathaway doesn't sport a robotic arm here. And yes, it would have helped. Robot arms always do.

PAUL BLART: MALL COP: Die Lard. With a vengeance.

PAUL BLART: MALL COP
Starring Kevin James, Jayma Mays, Keir O'Donnell
Directed by Steve Carr
Sony Pictures Home Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

Am I the only person who expected more from this? Am I the only person who thought this could have actually worked if it actually had some, I don't know...balls?

It's funny: coming off of the insane rush that was OBSERVE AND REPORT (one of the best movies of 2009, for reals), I really felt like that pretty much wrote the book on mall cop movies. America, on the other hand, disagreed, and while OBSERVE bombed faster than my “white people be shoppin'!” routine at the Apollo, PAUL BLART: MALL COP is one of the biggest movies of the year. Biggest.

What does all this mean? America wants and needs movies about overweight shopping center security guards, as long as they can take the whole family to it. We're a busy, workaholic society, dammit, and I only have time for one mall cop movie! (It's kinda hard to see Kevin James working in a date rape joke anyway...)

PAUL BLART is about Kevin James and how, even under his immense, crippling obesity, he is able to rescue not only his cadre of comedically stereotyped friends from badly-conceived terrorists taking over HIS mall, but also win the paper-thin love of the horrifically anorexic girl of his dreams. Now, as a pleasantly plump fellow myself, I honestly enjoy movies that present the chubby as action heroes of some sort. Even though I have a weight problem (or, as my doctor calls it, weight crisis), I am pretty sure that, if push comes to shove, I could kill five, six terrorists no problem. Yes, I'll be wildly out of breath when I'm done, but I'm sure most fat people probably could be an action hero if they put their enlarged heart into it.

But, instead of making Blart a reliably rotund member of society, like myself, Hollywood once again turns the chunkily-afflicted into clumsy buffoons and, as an extra twist of my greasy nipple, hypoglycemic. Yes, Blart can't go five minutes without eating a pie or else he passes out. Just like all fatties, right Tinseltown?

So, as I'm sitting here watching all this, I can't help but imagine all this country's general audiences hysterically—riotously, even—laughing at Blart splitting his pants while farting and trying to stuff four Snickers simultaneously in his face. Thinking about all those happy viewers, I've gotta ask: is this the new minstrel show?

My double-chin is nodding “Yes, Massa!”

But, even for all this blubbering, on both my part and the film's, PAUL BLART still could have been a very funny movie, the way other non-Sandler Happy Madison flicks like GRANDMA'S BOY, THE BENCHWARMERS, STRANGE WILDERNESS or JOE DIRT were, if instead of going for a safe 'n' harmless PG, they at least went for a dirty 'n' hard PG-13. BLART is too safe, too easy. It feels aimed at easily entertained pre-tweens, and, you know, it was. For the few of us that care, it's a totally wasted opportunity, but, for most of America, it was great popcorn cinema. It succeeded in what it set out to do.

For those few of us though that need to be challenged with a tad more edge, just wait for OBSERVE AND REPORT. I hear it's got a great date-rape scene!

STREET FIGHTER: THE LEGEND OF CHUN-LI: Better than the video game! Of course I've never played the video game.

STREET FIGHTER: THE LEGEND OF CHUN-LI
Starring Kristen Kreuk, Neil McDonough, Robin Shou
Directed by Andrzej Bartkowiak
20th Century Fox Home Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

I have never been a fan of STREET FIGHTER, the video game. Not that I didn't want to though. Growing up, in the early 90s at the height of the fighting game's popularity, the only choices I had were to go to Target and play it on their N64 demo set-up or the arcade system in the movie theater at Penn Square Mall, all because my family was far too poor to afford a gaming system. Poor pitiful me.

Either way, I never got a chance to ever play because groups of proto-thug Asians straight outta GRAN TORINO constantly swarmed the game wherever it may be and if I tried to get dibs on the next game, even if I put my quarter down, it was met with a “Get lost, fatboy!” as they took my quarter. Hence, I have no connection to STREET FIGHTER as a game and a mild distrust of Asians.

Just kidding. Kind of.

Now STREET FIGHTER: THE MOVIE, starring Jean-Claude Van Damme...well, that's a whole different story! It is without a doubt one of the stupidest movies ever made, that's for sure, but, on that same arcade token, it's also an extremely fun, extremely entertaining time. If you don't get a giggle 'n' squirt from the day-glo lunacy of the whole thing, then, well, you're probably dead inside. When people complained about how far from the video game strayed in the movie, I just paid it all no nevermind. I had to develop a relationship with the characters through the movie. I had to make friends with Guile, Bison, Chun-Li and that one electrical monster guy via this adaptation. It's all I know.

Now, over fifteen years later, another adaptation, STREET FIGHTER: THE LEGEND OF CHUN-LI has hit and, lo and behold, those same complaints about how it's “not like the game” have derided it once again by the extra-geeky “press”, and, once again, being fat and never getting a chance to play the aforementioned video game, even all these years later, I still have no connection to it and can form a new one with this movie.

The ethnically ambiguous Kristen Kreuk puts her lip-quivering histrionics on SMALLVILLE away for about ninety minutes to deliver a fine job as the titular Chun-Li, a concert pianist who is out to avenge the kidnapping of her dad, using what I think is Tai Chi—whatever the martial art is that's slow and old people do in the park. She speeds it up and teams up with Liu Kang from MORTAL KOMBAT to take out M. Bison. Or maybe just Bison. Either way, for a dastardly business investor, he's quite the ruthless badass.

Bison as an evil investor instead of an evil dictator general? Bring it on! No blue-flowery ear-muffs for Chun-Li? I can live without them! A Black Eyed Pea as Vega? Sure, why not! None of this STREET FIGHTER canon is needed, as CHUN-LI works well without it. Director Andrzej Bartkowiak (I'm pretty sure his parents named him after mashing down a keyboard with their palms), who also helmed other such fun flicks as DOOM, CRADLE 2 THE GRAVE and EXIT WOUNDS, doesn't take any of this seriously and while it never reaches the campy heights of the '94 film, it does have a pseudo-grittiness that makes the fight scenes pop more than would be expected.

My main complaint? Chris Klein as Agent Charlie Nash, popping gum and trying to play slick like he was coming off the set of SIMON AND SIMON: THE MOVIE as directed by the Broken Lizard morons. Every time Klein is on screen it's both cringe-worthy and revelatory: you fully realize just how cardboard this guy is and how he has no idea to create a character. He's got two modes: wispy beard and wispier beard. Isn't about time we Tara Reid this jackass for good?

STREET FIGHTER: THE LEGEND OF CHUN-LI is probably not on your buy list, or even on your rent list. But, then again, the original flick probably wasn't either, but, by chance, you saw it in a five dollar bin at Wal-Mart and remembered that you kinda thought it was cheesy, so you bought it and thoroughly enjoyed it. That's pretty much what will happen with CHUN-LI. I promise you'll buy it two or three years from now in a bargain bin. That is if some Asian dude doesn't bump you out of the way first...

THE DUMPSTER CHEESE THAT BORE ME FRUIT: A Poem by Maya Angelouis

I found you...like a baby floating down
The sweet-water of the river Euphrates.

Dripdropdripdropdripdrop do i dare?

I laugh in the face of the 7-11 manager who
Wastes this perfectly good nacho cheese...
Yellow Mexican Goddess

Dripdropdripdropdripdrop you melt so evenly
On top of tortilla chips

THANK YOU ISIS

What is this ache in
my
round belly?

DAMAGED Goods: THE NEW McDONALD'S THIRD POUNDER ANGUS BURGER!

There's a quote from THE SIMPSONS where a retiring food critic says “Why make 31 flavors when you can't get vanilla right?”

That pretty much sums up how I feel about McDonald's anytime they try anything other than a regular hamburger. They have a hard enough time making the their famous cardboard beef edible...do you really think they can handle Angus beef? And is it “pure” Angus beef, or just Ang-lish beef? Because I can't taste any difference in their new Third Pounder Angus Burger as opposed to, say, a value menu cheeseburger. As a matter of fact, it's practically the same sandwich, only bigger, more expensive and with a dollop of mayo. What's the point?



Look, McDonald's: stick to what you know. We don't need wraps or ribs or pizza or lobster rolls! Do what you do best! For example, in Argentina, you sell the “Triple Mac”, which is like two Big Macs, lovingly placed on top of each other. Why can't we do that? That is what the people want! People love the Big Mac and I'm pretty sure people would like two of them at the same time! Get on this, ASAP.

You know what else? Bring back that bucket of fries! What happened to that? For, like a $1.99, they used to fill a super-sized cup full of their deliciously addictive golden fries to the top, overflowing even. It was not only an embarrassment of riches, but perfect for when you wanted a meal consisting only of fries and nothing else. They used to proudly offer them on the menu...where are they now? Did that muckraking hipster douchebag Morgan Spurlock had something to do with their demise?

OK, OK, OK, even better: how about an Extra Value Meal with a Triple Mac AND a bucket of fries? Throw in a large, old school 72 oz. soda! It'll be like the good old days. And, especially in this time of economic depression, you could help people eat through their pain and suffering, becoming even bigger national heroes in the process! You could be hope and change for real, McDonald's!

But, as far as your Angus burger goes, leave that to the big boys over at Burger King. They do it right, and they do it my way.

THEY CALL ME BRUCE?: Kung Foolery!

THEY CALL ME BRUCE?: 25TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION
Starring Johnny Yune, Margaux Hemingway, Pam Huntington
Directed by Elliott Hong
Liberation Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

Of all the movies in the world to give a 25th Anniversary special edition to, 1982's THE CALL ME BRUCE? was the last one I expected. Did you expect it? No. Of course you didn't.

Now I'm sure all of us kids who grew up in the early 80s with classic HBO remember this and its sequel, THEY STILL CALL ME BRUCE? played non-stop between showings of THE BEASTMASTER and SUPER FUZZ, repeatedly watching to the point of having the goofy dialog ingrained into our childhood memories forever. It was a time of innocence when it was okay to laugh at ethnic stereotypes and wacky mix 'em up plotlines without some PC watchdog group shaming you into muffled silence. It was a golden age for cheap comedy and BRUCE might as well of led the pack with it's one-two Kung-Fu punch of comedian (and screenwriter) Johnny Yune—fresh off THE LOVE BOAT, as well as THE CANNONBALL RUN—running into all sorts of mob-based shenanigans, with only his good-natured quick wit and love of Chinese flour to guide him on his journey.

Bruce isn't his real name, but it's what the blow-hard Mafia stereotypes call him (because he's Asian—Korean, actually—and Bruce Lee was Asian, you see, so...well, according to them they all “look alike”. Don't get mad at me, that Guido said it! I'd never say such a thing!). So yes, they do call him Bruce. He leads a simple, happy life, cooking the gangsters spaghetti and telling them the meatballs are made from dogs. It's funny 'cause it's true.

At the same time, a group of white cops who know martial arts—a very slow, blocky, distorted form of martial arts, but martial arts nevertheless—are taking down said Mafia, ruining their coke trade, as cops are wont to do. Even though Bruce doesn't know martial arts, he always manages to comically fumble his way through every fight and, when a foiled convenience store hold-up earns him a bit of notoriety, La Familia dupes him into being their new errand boy to stay one step ahead of the fuzz.

Bag of coke in hand, he embarks on a trip across America to New York with a torn up and haggard, probably drunk-off-her-ass and clinically depressed Margaux Hemingway hot on his tail, as well as every ethnic stereotype possible: from the Italian wiseguys who use the phrase “Make him an offer he can't refuse!” within the first five minutes of the movie, to Texas rednecks, the Polish, the Jews and, if that wasn't enough—and it's not—not only do a group of black thugs teach Bruce outdated jive talk, but I think I saw JUST THE TEN OF US's Bill Kirchenbauer deliver an extremely offensive reenactment of the whipping scene from ROOTS. (It's really the only truly uncomfortable part of the movie, comparable to when your Uncle says the “N-word” at Thanksgiving.) I gotta give them credit though: every actor takes their role to the hilt, all played with a wonderfully overacting zeal that would make a 7th grade drama student say “Take it down a notch, pal!”. I'm actually surprised Avery Schrieber and Art Metrano didn't show up as an excruciatingly effeminate gay characters intent on nibbling on Bruce's eggroll, if you get my drift.

So while every other character is played obnoxiously broad, star Johnny Yune is actually truly hilarious, delivering one gut-choking one-liner after another; his gags definitely come from the near dead school of self-deprecating Rodney Dangerfield one-liners that, even in this jaded age of alt-comedy, will still have anyone who's not dead inside laughing out loud. Here's my three faves that I want to put on, at the very least, a series of t-shirts:

“I'm a sex object...everytime I ask a girl for sex, they object!”

“My grandfather had a dying wish...to stay alive!”

“I met a woman who made her husband a millionaire by gambling.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but he was billionaire before!”

(There's one other one that's a classic, but it's a visual joke that involves some chick's non-existent breasts in a hot tub. As the best jokes tend to.)

Also of the note is the utterly catchy opening theme song, with the lyrics “Oriental boy, hang on!/Go! Go! Go!” that is right up there with, well, the Oceans' theme to the aforementioned SUPER FUZZ—someone make a mash-up, and quick! Oddly enough, the rest of the music is made up of one homage after another; I'm pretty sure the director went to the composer and said “Hey, make me music for a ROCKY montage!” or “We need something that sounds like SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER but don't want to pay those Bee Gee prices!” It make for a fun drinking game, as any movie where the print resembles a cross between an early 80s Empire Pictures movie and a Schlitz commercial probably should be.

Most movies don't hold up twenty-five years later, especially as the soul-crushing haze of adult on-set memory loss sets in, but, like a good kick to the groin, THEY CALL ME BRUCE? is a direct hit. I call it funny!

CODEPENDENCE DAY: Let's get rid of the 4th of July altogether!

CODEPENDENCE DAY: Let's get rid of the 4th of July altogether!
By Louis Fowler

I don't know which I like more: the sound of a child's shrieking cry as they realize they're just blown their fingers off or the muffled remorsefulness of parents who are silently cursing themselves for downing numerous bottles of some local micro-brewed swill as they let their child play with the “harmless” firecrackers with no supervision because they're too busy getting blitzed and not being, you know, parents.

That's all Independence Day has become anyway. An excuse to get drunk. An excuse to buy fireworks and pop them off without knowing why. Seriously: why even bother anymore? Why bother celebrating this dead, archaic holiday? Is this how it is everywhere, or only in Fort Collins?

The Fourth of July is—I mean was—meant to celebrate America's freedom. Most of the Fort Collinsites that I surround myself with don't give a damn about America. They don't give a damn about freedom. All they care about is their sense of entitlement. All they care is getting what they think they are owed because they had to suffer through eight years of Bush. They would kill to see that freedom replaced with an automated government who does everything for them—they are owed it. They will give up everything just for a pat on the head and a good feeling of “hope” and “change”, as long as they actually don't have to do anything to achieve it.

I'm sorry, but I don't believe in “hope”. I believe in ACTION. I believe in getting off your ass and DOING SOMETHING. I believe in something more than an empty gesture slogan like “Coexist” or “Eracism” or “Who Would Jesus Bomb?” slapped on the back bumper of my environmentally sound Volvo. Maybe that's why I don't fit in here?

Well, that and the fact I like to bathe. And not with Dr. Bronner's soap, either.

I guess I just have to come to terms with the fact that freedom, as we know it, is dead. Have another round of Fat Tires on me. Let's dedicate them to your empty gestures. And maybe one more to your empty life.

Oh, you want to know just how empty these gestures are? As I write this right now, there is an unbreathable cloud of heavy, sulfurous smoke immovably hovering outside. It looks and sounds like a war zone. People, “sustainably living” by riding their $800 bikes, are cruising back from the City Park fireworks show, throwing their glass empties on the street and shooting roman candles off into the sky, making sure their perfectly coiffed dreadlocks don't catch on fire. The irony! These are the people that work ever-so-hard to try to and slow down that nasty ol' climate change by pedaling it across town, parking the car permanently, and yet they've done more environmental damage in one night than their car would have in a year! That's not a carbon footprint—that's a carbon Tunguska event!

But I don't know why I am suddenly surprised. These hypocritical scumbags are typical of the caring, socially minded Fort Collinsites that surround me at all times. They make sure to give a stern lecture for shopping at Wal-Mart instead of Whole Foods, but to destroy our usually wonderfully clean air quality because you're a drunk douchebag who wants to celebrate our new cap 'n' trade environmental policies, well, by golly, that's just fine! Be sure to blast that Rise Against in your iPod to pump up those liberal tendencies and that angry anarchic fist!

On the flip-side, it's not like the Fort Collins Police care anyway. At all. Sure, they say on their website that they are “increasing enforcement to curtail the problem of illegal fireworks within the city of Fort Collins”, but we all know that is utter bullshit. They are too busy directing traffic out of City Park to enforce the law. Our police force might as well be the security for a Rainbow Family gathering. Actually, I think they are.

But, really, why would they care anyway? It's well-known that here, in this town, you get to pick and choose which laws you want to follow. (Back to that good ol' entitlement!) If you feel a law is “unfair” or might “hurt your feelings" or “stifle your creativity”, then you go right ahead and do it anyway, rights of those it's intruding on be damned! So much for all your Alex Jones-lite theories of a well-maintained police state, you crazy 9/11 truthers! (BUY GOLD!)

But, you know...sitting here, listening to the gentle rhythm of some frat-boy puking on the street while a barrage of Scud-level poppers scare my dog into urinating all over himself, I have finally fully realized just how much of a lost cause all this freedom and America crap is. We don't deserve our freedom. We don't deserve our independence. We don't deserve a holiday to celebrate. While people are fighting and dying all over the world for something as small as a voice to be heard—I'm lookin' in your direction, Iran!—we waste ours on a six-pack of Mothership Wit Organic Wheat Beer and some Black Cats. Our freedom hasn't been taken for granted—it's been raped and left in a ditch to die.

But, on the bright side, maybe Obama's health-care program will sew your kid's useless bloody stump right up! That's gotta be worth something, I guess...