January 5, 2012
I sprouted, thrust into this world without anyone consulting me. I am not one of the beautiful; I am not one that by any other name instills flutters in the human heart. I am the kind that makes little kids gag at the dinner table thus being sent to bed without their desert. I am utilitarian, hearty vegetative matter that can thrive under harsh conditions. I am zucchini - and I am in space.
Where else would the taxis and recycling trucks park?
Also, evidence suggests that the drinking game for Game of Thrones is, "Every time jwz screams 'fucking dragons!' at the TV, drink."
I have some questions, like:
How does a writer think it's ok to put a zombie on the mantle in the first act, and not fire it by the third act? (This question is rhetorical. The answer is "shitty writing".)
How the hell do they have a thousand years of recorded history and artifacts of large-scale engineering ("Our family has been on that wall, blah blah blah") and they're still stuck in the 15th century technologically? Yeah, I can make up my own halfassed justifications, but throw me a fucking bone, instead of just a confusing mishmash of UK accents scattered around the continent willy-nilly. (This question is rhetorical. The answer is "Because, uh, Tolkien".)
Peter Dinglage and Lena Headey are the only thing keeping me watching this nonsense. Can't we just have them snark at each other for an hour instead?
Well that and I'm wondering whether Sunburn Barbie is ever going to run out of hair bleach over in Race-Fail-landia.