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I bet throwing eggs at people is a lot of fun. Personally, I wouldn't know, since I never went out on Mischief Night with a gang of punked out alterna-youths in order to raise hell in suburbia. It just wasn't my thing, I guess. All right, actually, I was too much of a pussy to go out, and I would probably wind up eating all the eggs instead of launching them at "the man." But now that I've grown older, I'd love to wield assorted dairy products in my backpack and go on a mischief-making extravaganza. While most kids seem to throw eggs on the sidewalk at random, I've devised some excellent battle plans that you can follow at home! You guys, man, you gotta get organized!
|Comes from a chicken, not a bunny, dummy.|
Scary-as-Hell Halloween 2k2 III | Thursday, 10.31.02
Egg Target #1: Shop Rite (dairy aisle)
Why waste money on a carton of eggs when you can just go the dairy section of your local grocer and raise hell for free? Fill an entire shopping cart with eggs and drive it into a shopping cart filled with brownie mix and try to figure out why you haven't made one gigantic brownie. When the stock boy comes over with a stupid look on his face, pour orange juice into his eyes and crack his skull open with a frying pan. Now walk the length of the dairy aisle and ask if "anyone else wants some." Mind your business there, stock boy. Fuckin' punk.
Egg Target #2: KFC
Walk into Kentucky Fried Chicken with 100 cartons of eggs and demand to speak to the manager. Tell him the eggs have a right to see what happened to their parents, now that they've been turned into Crispy Strips. When he denies you access to the Crispy Strips, start throwing the eggs into the vats of batter, and scream "Dear god, they want to grow up like their parents by frying in vats of batter! You monsters!" Then steal some of those muffins and bring them to my house. Those muffins is the bomb, yo.
Egg Target #3: Your Local Police Station
Everyone knows that cops love donuts and killing black people. Well, on Mischief Night, you can dispel one (1) of those rumors with some eggs! Stand across the street from the police station with 5 cartons of eggs. Throw the eggs at the police station. A policeman will come outside and will say something like "What's going on here, I'm a big fat pig." Throw an egg at him. When he draws his gun, scream from across the street, "I'm trying to dispel the rumor that cops love donuts! It's pretty obvious that eggs are your cup of tea, what with all the broken eggs all over your police station!" He'll laugh at the big misunderstanding and make you an omelette.
Bonus Egg Target: Coos Bay, Oregon
That's right, we need to cluster bomb an entire town in Oregon. Leave no man standing. Those bastards in Coos Bay have had it too good for too long, now, and it's time we put a stop to it. If you were to ask me, "John, why are we going to egg an entire town in Oregon?" then I would shoot you in the face. What do you think this is, fuckin', question - asking - fuckin' - story - time? Eliminate Coos Bay, Oregon, now!
If you're like me, you work almost every day of the week and get paid about $27. You have no social skills, you chew your fingernails excessively and you smell like broccoli for some reason. This is no reason to miss out on the fun and hijinx of Halloween! Sure you're poor as hell and 21, but you can still make a swank-ass Halloween costume with stuff found around the house! It's fun! Well, not really, but fuck you. On with the costume parade!
|Scary and Fun Halloween Costumes for Your Stingy Ass|
Scary-as-Hell Halloween 2k2 IV | Thursday, 10.31.02
Coked-up and Thoroughly Insane Homeless Guy
One (1) White pillow case with red polka dots
One (1) Long stick
One (1) pair of ripped jeans
Two (2) Bachelors' Degrees from William Patterson University
One (1) Piece of ratty looking cardboard
One (1) Black Sharpee Marker
One (1) Sad Puppy
First, station yourself outside of a respectable coffee shop with a box containing all of your ingredients. If you're wearing the ripped jeans, take them off and wrap the legs around your neck like a scarf. Your sad puppy won't do anything besides lay next to you and look miserable. Next, use your black Sharpee marker to write the phrase "i have 2 bachelors' degrees from William Patterson University, and i'll do a special trick for a buck" on the ratty-looking cardboard. The more spelling mistakes the better. Eventually, someone will stop, give you a dollar and ask to see your special trick.
Place a medium - large sized bowel movement in the white pillowcase. Tie the pillowcase into a knot and twirl it over your head repeatedly. Launch the pillowcase (with your bowel movement inside) at a passing car and laugh hysterically. Now, remember the guy that asked to see your special trick? Hit him in the back of the knees with your long stick and steal his wallet.
You're homeless and you're fucking insane. Also, you're hungry, so seemingly inedible objects are now extremely tasty (dirt, shards of glass, small babies, etc).
Rap Superstar Nelly
One (1) Adhesive Strip Bandaid
One (1) $75,000 Tommy Hilfiger Track Suit (Size XXXXXL)
One (1) Cloth hat
One (1) Baseball cap
Two hundred (200) Bitches and/or Ho's
Place the cloth hat on your head, then put the baseball cap on over it, but make sure it's tilted to the side. Don't worry, the more ridiculous you look, the more "street cred" you have. Next, climb into your $75,000 Tommy Hilfiger track suit. (Note: If you can't find the $75,000 version, the $50,000 version will do.) Now, place the adhesive strip bandaid on your face, below your left eye. Lastly, surround yourself in bitches and/or ho's, and remind them how phat paid you are by showering them in fitty dollar bills.
Mad niggas is gonna be hatin' on you costume. Introduce they asses to the wet t-shirt contest muthafucka. I'm talkin' AK's up in they muthafuckin' grills, yo. Werd.
Every 21 Year Old White American Male
One (1) Linkin Park/Creed/Disturbed t-shirt
One (1) 2001 hooked up Honda Civic
One (1) Brick Wall
Zero (0) Shame
One (1) Fire Extinguisher
One (1) John Lacki
Wrap the Linkin Park/Creed/Disturbed t-shirt over your head, covering your eyes and nose. I, John Lacki will lead you to the driver's seat of your 2001 hooked up Honda Civic and instruct you to drive in a straight line at 180 miles per hour. You will collide with a brick wall. Most likely, your 2001 hooked up Honda Civic will ignite in a smoldering pile of metal and subwoofers. If, for some reason, you survive the crash, I beat you to death with a fire extinguisher.
Wear reflective clothing if you're going to go trick-or-treating at night! Also, be sure to brush your teeth and use dental floss so that your dental records can be used to identify your blackened corpse.
Happy Halloween from your friends at thismayhurt.com. For something extra scary, click this blind link.
Now that we have that pesky sniper and his Boy Wonder sidekick taken care of, we now must focus our attention on a new killer: marathon gaming sessions. In this, the second part of my "scary-as-hell halloween 2k2" series (in which I pick apart news items that are scarier than Jack Nicholson frozen in the snow at the end of The Shining), I turn my attention overseas to our lovable friends in Taiwan, who have nothing better to do than let videogames kill them.
|Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn for Sega.|
Scary-as-Hell Halloween 2k2 II | Thursday, 10.24.02
I've been obsessed with a videogame or 12 throughout the course of my life. At first it was out of pure enjoyment, but now that I've grown older, sheer value has replaced my desire to have fun. Allow me to explain: I barely have enough money to put gas in my tank, food in my gut or toilet paper up my ass. Therefore, if I'm going to spend $50 on a videogame, I'm gonna get my money's worth, dagnabbit. It then becomes a quest to see how quickly I can beat the game into submission and sell it on eBay without losing too much money. Adventure? Excitement? A cheap bastard craves not these things.
However, some crazy guy in Taiwan died after playing an online game for 32 hours straight. That's like tomorrow and eight hours from now. I thought everyone knew that if you don't eat or move for a while you sort of die, but this is the second time in the past month that this has happened. Some dude in South Korea died after playing a game for 86 hours straight! I can't do anything for more than 10 minutes without getting hungry, tired, or hungry and tired, and these fuckers become so absorbed by a videogame that *WHOOPS* they forgot to live. I mean, Halo was god, sure, but I remembered to evacuate my bowels and breathe oxygen every once in a while.
How damaged must a culture be that not one, but two unrelated dopes are killed by gaming? Is there some kind of test you have to pass? Do you get government funding if your dummy rating drops into the red? I mean, it was funny when kids were spazzing out from seizure-inducing Nintendo graphics, but this is just plain pathetic. A winner is you, murderous gaming system of doom.
|The universe will die and we'll just shrug.|
Scary-as-Hell Halloween 2k2 | Tuesday, 10.22.02
Just when you thought it was safe to live, science has to step in and give you something else to be afraid of. First it was eggs. Then it was the flesh eating bacteria virus. Now, the fucking universe is going to collapse onto itself. Hooray! Thank you Professor Andrei Linde from Stanford University, it's bad enough I had to stay away from red meat last year, now existence as we know it is being threatened. Terrorism-schmerorism. Beltway sniper-schmeltyway schniper. We're like 20 times more fucked now.
|October centerfold for Bland Scientists Monthly featuring a homely-looking blob and his scum-tooth wife.|
Now, I'm not denying that Professor Andrei Linde from Stanford University is a great scientist. I mean, he's probably as good as that scientist from Half-Life, and that guy was damned good. And at first I believed everything that Professor Andrei Linde of Stanford University had to say. That is, until, I discovered that his partner was his wife. And she didn't even take his last name! Professor Renata Kallosh will be sittin' mighty pretty if the universe doesn't collapse in 20 billion years, since she'll have no ties to Professor Andrei Linde of Stanford University. She'll be all like, "No, I have no idea who Professor Andrei Linde of Stanford University is. What, do you think we were married lovers or something? We don't even have the same last name." God, what a bitch.
I love Rachel with all my heart, but there's no way we could be tag-team scientists. She'd be working hard in the lab, mixing test tubes and writing on graph paper, and I'd be carving hilarious caricatures into the lab table...
Rachel: Good God! The universe is going to cave in on itself! I've made startling new insights into the mysterious "dark energy" that appears to be pushing the universe apart. It may start to lose its power! Do you know what this means?
John: Does it have anything to do with dinosaurs?
Rachel: Well, no.
John: God, science is so stupid! I hate being a scientist. Can I wait in the car? I'm hungry.
Rachel: But John, this is kind of important. We could be reponsible for saving the world!
John: Fine, whatever. You work on saving the world, I'll go to the store and get you some more of those things... with the inches on them... you like, measure things with them...
Rachel: A ruler?
John: You know what? I've had just about enough of this scientific mumbo-jumbo for one day. I'm gonna make my own science club, and we're gonna have cake, and play Uno, and girls aren't allowed!
Science sucks. But husband and wife scientist teams suck harder. And when you're reponsible for discovering the end of life as we know it, how do you go home and make your loved one hot dogs and beans? Do you just freak out and dump all the furniture onto the lawn and wait for armageddon?
Prof. Andrei Linde: So, the world's pretty much going to blow up, huh?
Prof. Renata Kallosh: Yep. Pretty much.
Prof. Andrei Linde: Hmph. Do you want to make out?
Prof. Renata Kallosh: I've got an even better idea. Let's mix acid and bases in our underpants.
Prof. Andrei Linde: Mmm... you are such a little slut.
All right, I'm gonna break it down for a minute here. I never ask anything of you, right? I mean, I update fairly regularly, provide a few laughs, a few tears, a reason to feel good about yourself, etc, right? This site has been bannerless for a multitude of reasons, but mainly because I respect you. That's right, I, your humble and gracious webmaster want to provide you with a nice clean layout without flashing and exploding banners plastered all over the place.
|Just a popularity contest?|
or selling out for cash and prizes. | Sunday, 10.20.02
However, I have an opportunity to get some new traffic to the site, so forget about everything I just said and click the banner below. Every time you click, a starving child or animal of your choice will be fed by me. Seriously. I'll feed your starving kids. Just click.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, John, c'mon, the Stile Project is like the exact opposite of this site. What are you, some kind of sell out? To which I reply... yes. Yes, I am. Make with the clickin'.
We all have cars, right? Cars are as American as Apple Pie, except for Hondas, Nissans, Toyotas, Mazdas, Mitsubishis, Volkswagens, Saabs, Audis and Nazi U-boats. God I love pie. Anyway, this "tour-de-force" of an update will focus on Hondas, namely Civics, and the depressed, miserable individuals who plunked down their hard earned scrilla to buy a car that says, "I am a sheep. Sheer me and grow warm from my fluffy coat. Baaaaa."
|Buzzbomb is my pride and joy, king of the trailer court.|
Waiting for that perfect chick who will love me for my car. | Friday, 10.18.02
My family comes from a long line of unoriginality. My name is John, my father's name is John, and his father's name is John. We also had three goldfish named John, my middle name is John, and I dated a girl named John a few years back. So, the Honda Civic would be the perfect car for my bland, whitebread lineage. It's the car that makes the statement: "I have no statement to make. Enjoy my uninspired comfort and rejoice in the fact that no one will steal me, because everyone and their mom owns one just like me."
Since I only see things in black and white / night and day / left and right, here's a totally biased, yet amazingly dead-on, observation of mine...
Two kinds of people drive Honda civics: a) Ultra hip Japanese Raver Girls and b) Guidos (greasy ass male motherfuckers that can be of American / Spanish / Portugese / Arabian / Italian or Greek descent).
So, that pretty much narrows it down to carbon-based oxygen breathers. Nothing against them, they've just got some weird genetic thing that makes them wear gallons of Gap cologne, a backwards Abercrombie hat and jeans with fake paint splattered all over the ass and legs. Hooray for individuality, served hot and fresh daily at your local mall! Spiky hair now on sale for $4.99! Hilarious t-shirts depicting fake business establishments going fast! Get them while they're socially acceptable!
Where was I? Oh, right, Honda Civics. So I'm in the Rutgers parking deck today, waiting for my work shift to begin from the comfort of my '93 Maxima, and I'm watching this guy park his car. He pulls in, parks, gets out, checks out the spot. He gets back in his car, and drives up one floor. No less than 30 seconds later, he's back in the same spot as before. Someone parks next to him, and he's watching that car like a fucking hawk, man. Saying, "Please don't hit my car, please don't hit my car," like, in his head, y'know? When that person exits their vehicle, he gets out, inspects his car, gets back in, then pulls out of the spot, and parks one spot over. So I'm watching this asshole, and I'm thinking, "Damn, this guy must have a really nice car, like a fucking Jaguar or something." I think he saw me laugh at him when I realized he was playing "musical parking" with his HONDA CIVIC. Like, why bother? Just park your Civic in the pile of other Civics littering the parking deck and get on with your life. Don't worry, you'll be able to tell them apart by their "authentic racing decals," or what the layman calls... stickers.
Civic owners of the world, it's time to do a little soul searching, and come to the realization that you're really not as hard as you pretend you are. Stop driving around with that scowl on your face, revving your automatic and scaring old ladies. I don't care how many centimeters your car has been dropped, or how many phat decals you have plastered all over your exterior. Turn down the Ja Rule and admit that you have a small penis. It's ok, that's what we're all here for. You no longer have to hide behind your space-age spoiler technology anymore.
Black Flag will make you kill your radio. Why? Because you'll realize that the commercialized "angst" ridden music that rocks your socks off is completely and utterly ridiculous and pathetic compared to the Flag. The new tribute album, Rise Above, will further prove this testament.
|Fix me. Fix my head. Fix me please. I don't want to be dead.|
Rise Above | Tuesday, 10.15.02
Every rock band can stop trying so hard, because Black Flag has done it all already. Hate cops? Love being a beligerant alcoholic? Feeling down? Feel like killing everyone? Feel like killing yourself? Chances are Black Flag has devoted an album or five to you. Rise Above features 24 classic Flag tunes covered by an assortment of artists, including Tim and Lars of Rancid, Iggy Pop, Tom Araya of Slayer, and of course, Henry Rollins, the last in a long line of Black Flag vocalists. These songs were powerful in their time, some dating before I was even born. But somehow, they've grown stronger with age. The musicians of the Rollins Band covered each song so perfectly that it almost sounds like the original music has simply been remastered.
When I saw the tracklisting, I instantly knew which songs would stand out, but some others took me completely by surprise. For instance, I knew Tim and Lars could handle the intensity of "No More," and that Mike Patton would make "Six Pack" his own, but who knew Slipknot's Corey Taylor could preserve the desperation of "Room 13"? Or that Motorhead's Lemmy could remember the words to "Thirsty and Miserable"? (Here's a clue, about 75% of the lyrics include the words "thirsty adn miserable").
But, Rollins gives the most impressive performance in my opinion, even after all these years. He hasn't touched Black Flag material since their breakup in the mid 80's, but you'd think he'd never left. To me, songs like "Rise Above," "Black Coffee" and "My War" represent Black Flag to the fullest, and Rollins killed every track. You can tell he didn't have that "this is so below me, now" kind of attitude found in artists who move on to bigger and better things. Hank has a great deal of respect for the music, even if it mentally pushed him to the edge for most of his early 20's.
Rise Above wasn't made so Rollins could cash in on the loyal and expansive Black Flag fanbase. All of the proceeds go towards the West Memphis Three, three young men who were convicted of murdering three boys despite a lack of evidence or proper trial. This isn't some Rage Against the Machine-type bullshit, where we're supposed to free the cop killing Mumia Abu-Jamal. For more information about the West Memphis Three, and what you can do to help, visit wm3.org. And pick up a copy of Rise Above while you're at it, God knows we need some real music to kick some ass to.
Maybe you're fortunate to live in a town without a population besides your lazy ass, but I have the displeasure of existing alongside a group of thriving, well-established towns. In order to keep these towns maintained and running like clockwork, you need two things: a sickening amount of cocaine and guys who will raise money to buy the cocaine from midde-school students. This update will focus on those guys, or "Elks" as they are commenly referred to, because they piss me off and I wish death on their friends and loved ones.
|Dear Elks, Fuck you.|
Your Pal, Me. XOXO | Saturday, 10.12.02
I rarely leave this couch, especially when my stories are on, but this morning I had an overwhelming urge to don my gay apparel and "rough it out on the mean streets of K-town, bizatch." All right, actually, I had a hankerin' for some Raisin Bran, but nonetheless, the Elks were roaming the streets, armed with empty Clorox bottles with small holes cut in them. How I hate them. They walk up and down the median, trying to get spare change from drivers stopped at red lights, to raise money to "extinguish that school that never stopped burning," and "save the remaining children inside that school that never stopped burning." That is NOT the truth! That's code. I think it might be morse code, but don't quote me on it. Don't be all like, "well, John said the Elks were speaking in morse code," because I'll deny it and then who will look stupid? The Elks are actually raising money to feed their filthy habit for coke. The grand Elk leader, Joey Elk, commands it. And don't nobody mess with Joey Elk.
Anyway, the Elks are generally old white guys who beg for change, but wear matching satin jackets with names like "Carl" or "Ed" stitched on the front, and a picture of a dead elk emblazoned on the back. This is so you can differentiate them from old homeless black guys with no teeth who beg for change, because the Elks hate black people, and they're lifelong members of the American Dental Association. A particularly frumpy Elk approached my car this morning with his trusty Clorox bottle and I did the old "I clearly see you standing outside my vehicle, and I clearly hear you tapping on my vehicle with your prosthetic hand, yet I am so preoccupied with this empty passenger seat that I didn't realize you were standing there with your Clorox bottle" technique. I have about $7 million in nickels and dimes in my car's ashtray, and I'll be damned if some half-dead zombie guy gets one red cent of it.
The moral of this udpate is to kill the members of the Elks when you seem them. I know, that's not really a moral, more of a dictator-like command, but whatever, just do it. That's what's wrong with our youth, they're always questioning those with authority. When I tell you to kill old men for sport, just do it for god's sake. All right, you need some motivation?
The Beltway Sniper is an Elk.
Do with this as you may.
|Office taken over by robots.|
Any excuse to draw wires coming out of butts. | Thursday, 10.10.02
If my office had a water cooler and humans that worked there instead of mindless robot slave monsters, we would join hands around said cooler and discuss interesting topics of interest. Unfortunately, this is not the case. My co-workers are evil robots, and our water cooler is a radiator with a whole drilled in the side. Have you ever tried talking to a robot? Here's an example of a typical conversation. You can tell it's an example, because I've labeled it Example 1a.
Me: Say, that sniper sure is killing a lot of people in that state where those people lived, huh?
Robot Worker 1: Yes.
Robot Worker 2: Yes.
Me: Dude, that shit's fucked up.
Robot Worker 1: Yes.
Robot Worker 2: Yes.
Me: Well... uh, so... Hitler killed a lot of Jews, huh?
As you can see, I'm doing my part. Now, we've replaced John's robot slave monster co-workers with real human beings drinking Folger's Crystals. Let's watch.
Me: Say, that sniper sure is killing a lot of people in that state where those people lived, huh?
Real Worker 1: Yes, John. And might I add that you are looking fabulous today in that ensamble! Isn't that right, Real Worker 2?
Real Worker 2: I've never seen a more grand display of flannel and mink! He looks faaaaaabulooooouuuuus!
Me: Why am I always stuck working with you extremely popular, openly gay, sexy as hell guys?
Real Worker 1 & 2: Because we're faaaaaabulooooouuuuus!
Not the greatest example of real work-time shennanigans, but a noble try nonetheless. It's not like I have much to work with here. Most of my co-workers don't realize that I work there, and I'm beginning to sense that their vision is based on movement. When I try to talk to them, they spit forth some kind of poison from their throats and asses and enter a defensive attack stance. I did try to make contact once...
Me: Hello there. I am your highly superior office assistant. Bow down to my skillfully honed computer skills! BOW DOWN!
Trabajador 1: Recepción al cuarto de baño! Deje por favor algo de mierda.
In the end, I realized that no one is worth talking to, because only I am cool enough to understand what I'm talking about. So while you're all sitting around in your offices, talking about the Sopranos, and NHL hockey, and your families that love you, I'll be sitting in the corner, quietly knitting and drinking myself stupid. Fuck you office people.
Most fans of View Askew have at least heard of Vulgar. Written and directed by Bryan Johnson (the ever-present Steve-Dave of Mallrats, Chasing Amy, etc), Vulgar tells the story of Will Carlson's (Brian O'Halloran, best known as Dante from Clerks) misery as a clown for children's birthday parties. When business starts to get slow, Will takes on a new persona named Vulgar, a transvestite clown, that would entertain at bachelor parties. At his first gig, he is savagely raped by a man and his two grown sons. The rest of the movie focuses on Will's struggle to overcome the traumatic incident, while also dealing with his new-found notoriety among children.
|tmh movie review: Vulgar|
aka "that clown rape movie" | Friday, 10.04.02
Let me give you some background on my viewing of this film. Rachel got out of work around 9 last night, and afterwards we went to Blockbuster. We picked out two movies: Monsters Inc. and Vulgar. We watched Monsters Inc. from beginning to end, and afterwards I popped in Vulgar just to watch the first 15 minutes or so before we went to bed. We wound up watching all of Vulgar, too. Not because we particularly liked it, but the concept is so disturbing, so raw and emotionally draining that we couldn't stop ourselves. On that level, the "jesus christ, what else could possibly happen to this guy" level, Vulgar excels.
But it's not enough. Although this is a View Askew film, Kevin Smith didn't write it, and I wish he would have. Smith has mastered the art of portraying normal conversation between tightly-knit groups on the big screen. And he creates well-rounded characters that everyone can relate to. Everyone knows a smartass Randal, or a meticulous Brodie, and we become aware of what makes them tick instantly. Within the first 10 minutes of Clerks, you feel sympathy for Dante because you see all the bullshit he has to put up with at the Quick Stop, but it's rather subtle. Vulgar knows nothing of subtlety. Everyone in the entire town hates Will. Teenagers tease him, drunks pick fights with him, his mother wishes he was dead. This is usually where the sidekick would come into play, to show that the main character has some positive characteristics. While Syd, played by Bryan Johnson, is Will's closest confidant, we never get that chemistry that we feel between Dante and Randal, Jay and Silent Bob, or Jason Lee and anyone.
The film's most talked about scene, in which Will is raped in a motel room in full clown garb, could not have been more disturbing. The scene immediately following, however, sticks in my mind even more clearly. Will is seen lying on his floor in a puddle of his own vomit, weeping uncontrollably. You believe that this man was raped, both mentally and physically, and all you can do is watch. It's completely captivating because you can't believe it's actually happened, but the rest of the movie couldn't hold my attention nearly as well.
Rachel made a good point after we were through watching Vulgar. If the creators set out to make a movie depicting the horrors of rape, and the inherent shame and embarrassment associated with it, they were successful. Will's reaction to his situation is highly believable and realistic. But, it seems like Bryan Johnson just wanted to make a fucked up story in which a man's soul is beaten to the ground, and he redeems himself through his love of children's happiness. Brian O'Halloran gave an excellent performance as Will, but the rest of the characters and the environment itself fell flat. I would have loved Vulgar if I was still in high school, and was looking for a movie that was cool because it was underground and bizarre. Maybe I'm becoming an old man, but aside from a few minutes of footage, Vulgar leaves a lot to be desired.
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