Mission Impossible (But really quite possible, and containing sharply dressed people except for the Indian billionaire who made me weep because he was dressed like a prissy maître d‘) 4: Poltergeist Protocol (or Space Age Parking Lots in India) surprisingly did not suck. I watched it on a tiny little screen on the flight over to Bangalore. th screen was embedded in the seat ahead of mine. A touch-screen, because nothing enhances a thirteen hour flight more than having people jab the back of your seat as they try to adjust the volume of two point five men season 4 episode 6, Contrived Shit, Canned Laughter, End of Civilization.
The movie was notable for two things (not my opinion, this is an objective viewpoint) :
- The aforementioned parking lot that looked like it had come off of a Death Star hangar bay and should really have contained TIE fighters and not mid-sized econo-mobiles.
- The follow up mission (if he chooses to accept it.), “Random bad guy has hijacked the entire US drone fleet and is planning to launch an attack on XXX target (XXX being a random fleet of ships, major world city/ies or some such miscellany and not the multitude of strip clubs on the west side highway).
Now, the plot of Mission Impossible (C’mon did the Indian have to be such an ass) 4 revolved around a deranged wonk who was really, really, really trying to cause a nuclear holocaust while dealing with abandonment issues (my interpretation), making a rogue drone fleet bad, but not age of dinosaurs bad.
The owners of the franchise now have no choice, they either need to escalate the threat with each subsequent movie (And given that the Impossiverese is alien free (E.T. as opposed to I.T.),and therefore cannot import ID4-esque space aliens (running Windows NT), and is also free of the supernatural (apart from this magical disdain for the laws of physics), that is no easy task). Or they need to rapidly ratchet down the threat level.
So here we are, Missions Impossible 5 through 10:
- Mission Impossible 5: The Parallel Parking Imperative. Agent Ethan Hunt tries to parallel park his impractical S.U.V. while there is no bomb in the car but while the cabbie behind him gives him multiple disdainful looks of varying intensities interspersed with disappointed honks. Run time: 3hours 14 minutes. Some mild swearing and full frontal nudity.
- Mission Impossible 6: The Power Point presentations. Agent Ethan Hunt attempts to create a power point presentation for his important meeting this afternoon at his new office in Topeka, Ks. Discovers that his network drive is inaccessible and needs to work against the clock to redo it. Run Time: 45 minutes. Occasional swearing, man on computer violence and full frontal nudity.
- Mission Impossible 6.5: The Power Point Presentation on Vista. Needs to be done in Open Office. He’s screwed. Run time: 14 hours. Graphic violence, scenes of intense horror, some kissing and inappropriate touching.
- Mission Impossible 7: Budget Cuts. Agent Hunt is reassigned to second level tech support as a result of budget cutbacks. Nobody believes his fake American accent. Run time: 1 hour 3 minutes. Mild racism and swearing. full frontal nudity.
- Mission Impossible 8: C’mon did the Indian Character from Casper Protocol need to be that awful? The character from MI4: Ethan wears a hoodie talks to his therapist about his deep seated insecurities. Run time: 22 minutes, full frontal nudity.
I’m visiting Bangalore, and to get around I usually rely on the trusty auto-rickshaw.
When I do let one of the auto rickshaw (drivers, pilot-navigators, sailors, masters/commanders, directors) charioteers know of my intended location, they give me a sad look.
Not just any sad look, not the sad look of one who has discovered that his close friend is a serial killer who enjoys lightly sauteed civil-engineers, but a look far more profoundly and deeply sad.
A look that lets me know that my desire to go to Koshy’s is unnatural and will bring about my doom and that of the greater Bangalore area, will cause the ice caps to melt into pools of fire, will kill a puppy, and will cause internet connections the world over to be slow. A look that lets me know that I should know better and shame on me.
I’m going to run late again.
“The information that I received is listed in the points below: ”…apparently the trauma of high school exams has not yet passed. (Never a pleasure to me unlike to other people I know. You know whom I’m talking about. You…yes you. Do not try hiding behind the toaster, I can still see you and I know where you live.)
Moving on, or moving back, a couple of weeks ago I received a helpful email informing me that somebody was following my feed on Twitter (Link redux, for those of you who didn’t click the first time. For shame!). That woke me up from my semi-doze. (Not my fault…my office faces west and in the late afternoon, a couple of hour before lunch the sun beats down upon the windows and fucks the climate control something mean. This makes the office cozily (read infernally) warm, and that makes me very, very drowsy. Nothing to do with the fact that I’m playing too much of this again.)
Somebody was following me on Twitter! Somebody thought my updates in the form of text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length were worth following. This had me all a-Twitter. “It is my duty to tweet,” I thought to myself. But then I lost interest.
Much like I lost interest in this blog post.
Me: Porn in unexpected places is always a joy.
Like finding a flower in the dead of winter
Or like a fleeting smile on a face.
Or a glimpse of sunshine on a dark cloudy day
Not Me: Oh god. You are comparing some of the most beautiful things to porn!
Me: Not porn.
Unexpected porn. Totally different.
Edited for grammar and content.
…and is promptly decapitated by the anti zombie blog resistance force.
A month ago, a sign went up in my gym.
And thusly spake the sign, “Verily, tis true that the dark days are upon us. The storms of misfortune have left us without a home, to roam forever in the outer darkness. We go without a shiver, without a quiver, with a firm step and a song in our hearts, marching into the silent dark knowing that tis our fate and tis our duty to abide. But you, you our gentle, sagacious patrons, fear not. Fear not for thine wellbeing has been insured. For thou, for thou art waiting two brave holds, waiting but for thee to accept one and to call it…home.”
In a little while the chemicals wore out. The words on the sign were now a shade more prosaic but the meaning was pretty much the same, “Our lease is up. The gym is closing. You can switch to one of two branches in the area. They’re both pretty good. Think of this not as an abrupt disruption of your daily routine but as a welcome change from the tedious pattern of your life.”
And then the chemicals wore out a little more and that last sentence was gone.
So I need to pick a new place to go work out in. One is in a shopping center strip mall and the other is in an anonymous block of office buildings. The one in the strip mall is slightly closer, but the one in the office block is slightly larger and is open later. These are some of the factors that I need to weigh and evaluate before picking one.
Of course this is all a load of bull crap. I’m going to go work out at the two of them and then pick the one with the better eye candy. Eye candy and gyms go together like supermodels, handcuffs and butter.
Um…well. Yeah. So yeah. I don’t actually pay any attention to eye candy during reps. One experience with smushing my fingers and then nearly pulping my head(As the smushed fingers signaled their displeasure with the smushing and struck work for the day, muttering darkly under their breaths about unionization, Das Kapital and the glorious revolution.) with a forty five pound weight were enough to convince me that that was a bad idea. Between reps is another matter altogether. By another matter I mean that discreet and polite eye candy observation is called for…Always keeping in mind that gym shorts are well…um…a little thin.
Damn butter, handcuffs, supermodels, eye candy and a veiled erection reference. I’m good.
So yeah. Um…Abide and go forth bravely into the cold night.
At the supermarket, the bottles of tomato ketchup have pictures of tomatoes on them.
The packs of detergent have pictures of babies and/or women on them.
Detergent is therefore made from distilled essence of babies and/or women?
Yes, I’m just trying to get out of doing my laundry.