My Six Point Plan For Battling Corporate Deceit

My company held what they refer to as an “All-Hands” meeting this week. These get-togethers are invariably about as compelling as watching semen harden. And both leave a similar taste in your mouth. I guess the only difference is that with the blowjob, swallowing is optional.

I really don’t understand the purposes of these forced oral rapes. Every four months we gather in a huge room, while some ass-wipe blathers on about how we just had the greatest quarter in history…regardless of what actually happened. Did our stock drop 25% in the last month? Who cares! Best quarter ever! Are our offices completely infested by man-eating slugs and the hanta virus? BEST QUARTER EVER.

Now, I don’t particularly mind being lied to. I have a girlfriend. I’m used to it. But if you’re going to make me take two hours out of my day, at least make them INTERESTING lies.

• Going forward, we will require all management to defend their jobs through feats of strength. Anyone who can best a manager at the competition will assume his title, salary, and trophy-wife.
• We have received word that the programming and accounting departments have failed to meet quotas. To counter this, they will now be run like a Viking slave-ship: working 20 hours straight, to a drum beat, while a man with a whip flogs those who can’t keep up. Code that image, cur! Carry the one! CARY THE FUCKING ONE!!!
• In an effort to implement a rewards system that actually works, each month the hardest worker will receive “two suckling pigs and a comely lass of virtue true.” Please note the lass is non-exchangeable. The orphanage is getting wise to us.

Unfortunately, our meeting did not include mention of child slavery or prostitution. Instead, there were lots of graphs, bad power-point presentations, and men so painfully not cut out for public speaking I could have sworn I was at a convention for Down Syndrome victims. Never in my life had I prayed so hard for an anthrax attack.

Fortunately, I have devised a six point plan for weaseling out of the next one:

Step 1: Smuggle Alka-Seltzer into meeting.
Step 2: Fake a Seizure (see steps 3-5).
Step 3: Drop tablets in mouth.
Step 4: Thrash around on floor howling. Use this opportunity to yell such choice phrases as “the executive VP of advertising is a salad-tossing cock tampon.”
Step 5: Soil myself.
Step 6: Kick back in a hospital pantsless watching Spanish soap operas. Chicks on Telemundo are ridiculously fucking hot.

Yes, it’s a flawless plan. But the real humor will be after the paramedics drag me from the scene, leaving a trail of shit in the middle of the conference room. There will be a 20 second pause and then some corporate douche bag will resume his prepared remarks on how it was the best quarter ever.

The Fat And The Furious

I’ve heard it said that when being pursued by bears, you don’t need to outrun the beast: you just need to outrun whoever’s with you. This is a lie. In reality, all you need to do is give your companion a healthy dose of pepper spray and then cover him in honey. Which is why I’ve taken to manufacturing my own unique aerosol. It’s fun, easy and in a pinch, doubles as a wicked Honey Mustard sauce. Just one spray and you’re south of the Border!

Which brings me to my point of the day: Fat people suck. Which is why I make them puncture the Pepper Spray cans so I can add honey.

Why do fat people suck? Well, there are many reasons, from depleting our natural resources to their completely outlandish addiction to wearing spandex (seriously, has anyone ever seen a good looking person wearing spandex??? Folks, it’s a privilege, not a right. Just because it ever so tenderly caresses the inside folds of your knee fat doesn’t make it socially acceptable.), but I think the time has come to rise up and overthrow these over-weight oppressors once and for all. Not literally of course…I mean that could cause serious back damage.

What brought on this burst of hatred? Sit back my children and I will tell you the tale.

I was at an “Eat N’ Park” for breakfast not long ago. For those of you not familiar with the chain, it’s roughly as classy as the name suggests. Imagine the inbred, trailer-trash, retarded sister of Denny’s. Now lower your expectations.

At any rate, I was finishing what could only generously be classified as “eggs” when I saw a couple lumber into a table not far away. Conservatively, the two of them weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of 700 pounds. The woman had folds of back fat larger than me. The man hadn’t seen his dick in eight heart attacks.

Now, when you’re so large that planets try to orbit you, it’s difficult to find portions that are large enough to fit your appetite. I mean, when you’re taking 30 pound shits four times a day, you have a lot of keeping up to do. So the couple opted, naturally, for the buffet table. I kept expecting to see each one of them return to their table with a steam tray.

As I watched a man 3 times my weight shovel 15 flapjacks with extra syrup into his gaping mouth, I had one thought: remember the underground monster Jaba tries to feed Luke to in Return of the Jedi? Yeah, that was it.

None-the-less, I was willing to live and let live. Granted, it was easy because I expected both these fat bastards to succumb to diabetes within the next 15 minutes.

Now, having picked at my breakfast of questionable origin, I decided that the only thing safe to consume was the toast. I had a decision: either I could order a $5.00 side and wait 15 minutes while our gap-tooth, chain-smoking waitress ashed on my order, or I could go steal a couple slices from the buffet-table.

“Who the fuck is going to care if I steal some toast?” I thought.

Apparently, the two cave-monsters, that’s who.

The woman suddenly looked up as I approached the sneeze-guarded treasure of deep-fried gristle. When I noticed her sunken eyes sizing me up I had the irrational instinct to freeze.

“DON’T MOVE!” My mind screamed. “HER EYESIGHT IS BASED ON MOVEMENT.”

“YOU CAN’T EAT THAT!!!” the land manatee suddenly barked, spraying fried chicken and gravy into her waffles. “YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED!!! GET AWAY!!! NOW!!!”

Now, she had a valid point. I wasn’t technically supposed to be eating from the buffet. On the other hand, it was toast. And really, what did SHE care if I stole from the restaurant? In the end, I think she just got jittery because she had already earmarked everything at the buffet table as hers.

Seriously, I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly.

Essentially, the experience has served to teach me a valuable lesson: we’ve become far, FAR too accepting of the morbidly obese. At any other point in civilization, these two wouldn’t have been tolerated. They would have been left with two occupations: sideshow freak or professional bear-baiter. People would spit on them, stare in horror, and kick them in the street for the amusement of small children.

So fat people of the world, the gloves are off. Next time I see you coming, I’m letting the air out of your mopeds.

Live, From A Virginia Tech Dorm Room...

I’ve been getting a lot of shit from friends because I stopped posting. I swear: people are impossible to please. When I post, I get nothing but bitching about how I’ve gone soft. When I stop writing, I get slammed. Christ! If I suck so badly, why do you care that I stopped? Make up your minds, people!

I thought it was funny that my girlfriend got shrapnel for my supposed “soft” writing, though. PLEASE. I started sucky posts when this blog began about a year and a half ago. I sure as fuck didn’t notice a drop-off…but if there WAS one, it seems like the most likely culprit was the fact that I’ve written close to 300 posts.

I’m fucking burned out! If you’ve got a really craving for my writing, check some of the archives…God knows there’s plenty of shit to keep you occupied.

I don’t know whether I’m ready to come back quite yet. I need some time to recharge and get new opinions about things again.

No, the truth is I couldn’t post because I had shit to do: weapons to buy, Virginia colleges to visit, murder suicides to…Hmmm, I may have said too much. The point is I was busy. You know how it is.

I was amused when the VA Tech Shooter was recently described as a “sullen loner.” Hmmm…An English major whose “twisted...creative writing...raged against women and rich kids”? Where have I ever seen that guy before? I’m a hyphenated Korean last name from dying in a hail of SWAT team fire.

Seriously, my co-workers told me that they’re submitting this blog to the FBI should I ever be accused of a crime.

Why is it always the sullen loners who snap? Just once, I want it to be a “dashing playboy,” “precocious ne’er-do-well,” or “Ex-Buffalo Bills running back.” Oh wait…I think I did see that last one somewhere in the news. Or at least in Dana Carvey stand-up specials.

My point is that these kill-hungry anti-socialites are giving the rest of us a bad name. After all, some of us might just be rapists.

My Career As A Desert Mystic

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Number 6 With A Large Fries

It seems like all the things that I’ve really needed to know were never taught to me in school. Like how to fracture someone’s arm in three places, or exactly how much antifreeze one can consume before massive kidney failure and blindness sets in. I’m just saying, that’s the kind of thing that would have been good to kn0wsdsdba. Stupid Braille keyboard…

My company is having a “Friday at 4”…today. This is the kind of thing that could have given me an aneurism in the past trying to figure out. The “Friday at 4” event (inexplicably scheduled for a Thursday), offers open bar (with the exception of well drinks, fucking cheapskates) to all company employees for two hours. This is precisely the kind of event that I have had no training for.

The last such shindig had a few highlights. For starters, I work for a computer company. The majority of my coworkers are guys who thought that a fun Saturday night is playing Second-life until 4 am. To say that they are not experienced drinkers is like saying that Anna Nicole Smith was not a Rhodes Scholar.

What this amounted to was me ordering my third free drink before everyone had even arrived. Hey, I’m a corporate bitch working for a company that doesn’t believe in Christmas bonuses. One way or another, I was getting that fucking bonus even if I had to destroy my liver in the process. So I was about 6 beers deep by 4:30 or so, which was just the right amount of alcohol for me to decide that it was greatest idea ever to harass the C.E.O. into downing car bombs.

The exchange went something like this:

Me: You there! You inexplicably continue to employ me. Let me buy you a Car bomb.

C.E.O.: Is there anyway for me to get out of this without you thinking I’m a complete pansy?

Me: Of course. I wouldn’t think you were a complete pansy. Cough! Cough! Nancy! Cough!

Honestly, I think the only reason I still have a job is that everyone else in office has the alcohol tolerance of 90 year-old lupus victims. I’m just assuming that after the car-bomb, everyone else just blacked out. Which is why I find myself debating: Go to open bar, or not?

On one hand, there will be free booze. However, the odds of being terminated for calling the head of HR “a boy-loving, cock-sorcerer” skyrocket.

On the other, I could let the man win by not bankrupting the company on my bar-tab and live to collect another paycheck.

Sigh…I guess there’s always that counter-job at Wendy’s.

Wii-tarded

I fucking hate the Wii. What a useless waste of technology that could have been spent on new ways to download porn. Then again, this load of shit originated in Japan, meaning that this time would have been otherwise sunk into filming women getting fucked by eels in airtight containers of urine while getting beaten with sacks of broken glass. Fine, fine. Pretend I’m the only one who ever saw that movie. But we all know that the Japanese are incapable of producing any sort of “normal” pornography.

But back to the Wii. For those of you who haven’t seen it, the controllers need to be wildly swung about, rather than simply pushing buttons. I guess the idea was that some loser at Nintendo decided to create a video game system for people too lazy for Dance Revolution. Or simply to torture palsy victims.

I’m not a huge videogame guy, I must confess. I’ve got a Playstation that I bust out for stress release from time to time. Hey, if it weren’t for Grant Theft Auto, I would have gone on a killing rampage years ago. Don’t breathe easy just yet, though. I get the feeling that this is sort of like trying to prevent a period with a Q-tip: eventually, I’m going to see red and ruin someone’s underwear. A killing spree is always a distinct possibility.

Speaking of periods, my mom always used to tell me life was like a box of tampons: it’s just one bloody thing after another.

I guess I just don’t understand the appeal of this new system. When I play videogames, it’s because I want to relax, not because I want to jump about my house furiously, fighting imaginary enemies. I mean, between that and Bluetooth headsets, how will we ever really know if someone is having a psychotic-episode? Look, I’m all for exercise, but this is just insanity. If you’re going to spend two hours a day swinging an imaginary bat, why not go down to the batting cages instead? This is the same issue I had with Guitar Hero. I’ve seen kids at stores who are INSANE at that game. Why not take that time and actually learn how to play? Maybe gain an actual skill instead of something completely useless?

I don’t even have a problem with people who want to be completely useless. But if I want to unwind, the last thing I want to do is stand in front of a TV twitching like Michael J. Fox. Instead, I’ll stretch out in a chair like Christopher Reeves.

Now, ordinarily, all of this would be pushed down in a tight little ball until I snapped and beat someone with a wrench. But unfortunately, the Wii has been thrust into my life in the least likely place: my job. Inexplicably, my company decided that having a game system in the lounge would be a good idea. It used to be that I could stretch out on the couch and watch Law & Order reruns during my lunch. Those days are gone. Now everyone piles into the lounge to watch the same three guys play virtual tennis. It’s like college all over-again…except I’m not drunk

…usually.

Fucking Wii. If this continues, I’m going to install a beer tap at my desk at work.

Proof That I Hate Myself

There have been a few moments in my life where I realized with absolute clarity, that I must have an enormous amount of self-loathing. I’m talking about instances that go above and beyond living in Rockland County, my job as a corporate bitch, and fucking that horrible she-beast a few years back. Ok, maybe the moment didn’t top the time I slept with the she-beast. When you have to pull-up a girl’s back-fat to fuck her doggy-style and fake an orgasm…well, some wounds just never heal, even with time.

Not surprisingly, St. Patrick’s Day offered me ample opportunity to feed my undying hunger for self-mutilation. And while one might think it’s tough to drop lower when you’re drinking Budweiser a wife-beater that reads “I want to cum in your mouth” in Gaelic, somehow I managed.

Our evening’s plans revolved around a filthy little bar, just outside of Philadelphia. It was tiny, smoky and completely devoid of any class. Meaning my friends and I fit right in. Now, when I say that the bar lacks class, you might wonder, “Ehren, how do I know your use of the word matches my own? Maybe you’ve just got a weak stomach.” It’s a fair enough challenge, but I think my story about fucking that enormous, hairy beast proves that I have stomach. Regardless, don’t take my word for this establishment’s dubious quality. Instead, just enjoy this story:

Scientist, her friend and her father were drinking in this bane of quality. Her friend turned to her father when the later returned from a trip to the restroom and said, “You know, I have to hand it to you. When I found out that we were going to be drinking with Scientist’s father, I was a bit nervous. But it’s been a real pleasure having you here. You’re way cool. And I’m impressed with your ability to hang.”

Scientists father, turned to the table and said, “Oh no, you’ve got me all wrong. Right now, there’s a pair of underwear in the men’s room garbage that’s complete full of shit. It’s everywhere. Some dude must have shit his pants and tossed his underwear. He’s still here, somewhere. That guy can hang.”

I rest my case.

So why would my friends and I drive two hours to enter this cesspool? Mixed drinks under three bucks. Even with gas and tolls it was cheaper than drinking in New York.

While the night was a blur of avoiding fights, dissuading Chocolate Love from fucking a fat girl in a moo moo, and someone throwing up in my car’s ashtray, the real moment of truth came the following morning.

After trying to piece together the night, we realized that Chocolate must have left his cell phone at the bar. “What bar is open and full of people at 10 am, the day after St. Patrick’s Day?” you ask. Why, a place where people shit their pants, and then continue drinking anyway. Which why I found myself doing car-bombs, yager shots, and vodka sodas before noon. None of that is really all that startling, given my propensity for alcoholism. In fact, in and of itself, it’s barely blog-worthy. However, it might go a long way towards explaining why I thought that ordering a full pound of peal-and-eat shrimp from the same establishment was a good idea.

The price of this monstrous helping: $10, my self-esteem, and the contents of my bowels.

Everyone has a line. I didn’t just cross mine. I blasted past it on rockets intended to break the earth’s gravitational pull. Unless I start killing crying puppies, all dressed in sailor suits, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to top this.

One pound of peal-and-eat shrimp. At 11:30 AM. After car bombs, yager, and vodka-sodas. The morning after St. Patrick’s Day. In the scummiest bar this side of Mexico.

Yeah, I hate myself.

Celebrity and Professional Smack Downs

Just a question before I begin today’s post: Does Angelina Jolie still have a career besides “child abductor”? Really, why exactly are we paying attention to her? Granted, her tits are nice. But still…we’re talking about a woman whose last notable acting role was in “Girl Interrupted.” That was 8 fucking years ago. No tits are spectacular enough to keep someone on the A list for 8 years without a real role. She’s Cuba Gooden Jr. with tits, ok?

Now, while I detest her as a person and find her filmography pathetic and laughable (serious, “Sky Captain,” “Alexander” and “Tomb Raider 2”? These are movies that Paulie Shore knew enough to pass on), I would none the less like to nominate a new candidate for adoption:

Me.

I’m poor, clueless, and in my career and social life, hopelessly downtrodden. Screw those starving kids in African nations. It’s time you inspired the world with a touching charity case right here at home. I’ll even wear blackface if necessary. Feel free to spank me all you like. And I swear: I’d only bust in on you changing two or three times…a day. Mama Angelina, I throw myself between your two, large, glorious, soft…hands.

Sorry about the celebrity rant. Li’l Terrorist is on hiatus once more and I get antsy when idiotic film stars go for weeks without the literary smack-down they so richly deserve.

On to people in my professional life that need a beating.

My company is truly bizarre. Granted, this is the only “real” job I’ve ever had with a large corporation, so I’ve little to compare it to, but the way of doing anything seems completely psychotic.

Example: they moved us all to a larger office in a more upscale part of town. The idea was to move us to a space with a more “professional” feel. Which translated into uniform, soulless green walls and the most hideous florescent lighting ever conceived. We’re talking lights so bright that I had to start bringing in sunscreen to work. I could probably just set up a lawn chair and reflective neck-shield in my cubical during lunch. I’m about a week away from looking like George Hamilton.

Numerous complaints and seven months later failed to bring any solution from management. The whole conflict is fascinating to watch. I don’t feel any real motivation to get involved because I took it on myself to unscrew all the bulbs in the lights above my desk. Meaning I have one of the few head-ache and tan-free cubes in this soulless office.

But my real headache is this: my company, under the vain hope of reducing the backlash of subjecting everyone cancer-causing lights, decided to throw an open-bar event for tomorrow. The idea was the loyal minions could knock off at 4 tomorrow and get drunk on the company dime until 6. Today they canceled it due to “bad weather.”

Now here’s what I don’t get: The bar in question is about half a mile from our office. The drinking was supposed to run until 6 pm. Since it was canceled, everyone has to stay for a full work day until…you guessed it, 6 pm!

Honestly, I’ve stopped trying to figure out the next move. I’m expecting to hear at any minute that they’ve canceled Christmas, due to religious reasons.

My Trip To The Mecca Of Drinking

You know how ice-cream places sometimes have “Build Your Own Sundae” stations? I was wondering today whether Scottish restaurants have “Build Your Own Haggis” stations. Now that would be a good time. There’s nothing that says, “Family Fun” like stuffing a sheep’s stomach with a fresh heart, liver and lungs.

Recently I decided that my company had received far too many consecutive work days out of me and began looking for suitable places to go and unwind. And when I say, “Unwind” I mean, “drink until I pass out.” It took all of 20 seconds to decide on the UK. After all, who knows drinking better than the Irish?

The real deciding factor, however, came when I when received an invite to a wedding at the Mecca of Drinking. For those of you who really, and I mean REALLY, like to drink, I have three sentences that will turn you green with envy:

1. Full Bar
2. Open Bar
3. From 5 pm until 5 am.

I’ll let that sink in for a moment.

What makes this event even more dangerous is that the reception is being held in the same hotel where we have reservations. Meaning that all I have to do at 5 am when they cut me off is drag myself to the elevator and find my room. I’m placing the odds at about 70-30 that I’m too drunk for that and pass out at the bar.

Back in college, there was a day when between the time I woke up and the time I was hauled back to my room in the back of a pick-up truck, that I drank a full bottle of 100 proof Southern Comfort and a six-pack of beer. I don’t mean a shoulder. I mean a full, 750ml bottle.

The chances are good that this trip will see either me eclipse my record, or finally give in to alcohol poisoning. Naturally, those two possibilities are not mutually exclusive.

But the real fun of the trip, I imagine, will be seeing how badly one deranged Jew can do to a ceremony that binds a man and woman together in the bonds of pure love. If history has taught us nothing else, it’s that I full expect my actions will allow me ample opportunity to investigate the inside of an Irish prison. Below is a list of activities that may actually take place, depending on how high my level of supervision is and how much I pre-game an open bar event. Lest you think I exaggerate, I have one final tidbit: I’ve already got a line on Irish Moonshine. In the eyes of wedding planners, this is an event I like to call “End Game.”

1. Show up at the ceremony dressed in a T-shirt tux, boxers and flip-flops. Taking generous gulps from a flask I demand to know where the “Free hooch is.”
2. Drop-kick the best man for “eye-balling my woman.” So what if she’s the maid of honor?
3. Loudly interrupt the ceremony to inform the Church that, “If the bride were going to take into account her actions of the bachelorette party, she couldn’t wear white gloves…or lipstick.”
4. As a gift, bring an unwrapped, 15” black dildo with an attached card that reads, “I wasn’t sure what to bring, but then I began thinking, ‘What is it that the bride likes and the groom doesn’t have?’”
5. Muscle in on the first dance…naked.
6. Sweet talk my way into singing a tune dedicated to the bride and groom. Bust into “99 Problems” by Jay-Z.
7. As I get progressively drunker, accuse everyone of being “after me lucky charms.” Get shanked in the back 47 times by the bride’s party with those tiny knives they wear in their kilts.
8. Clothesline and flying tackle my way into catching the bride’s bouquet. Refuse to give up even once a winner has been declared. Carry out an ambush in the parking lot at the end of the night if necessary.
9. Include the number of a good divorce lawyer in my card.
10. Make fun of the little black hats worn by militants. Loudly declare that the IRA is a bunch of pansies.

Ehren Reviews A Movie

It’s not often that I take the time to jot down my movie reviews. After all, I think that UHF and Trading Places rank among the greatest movies in history. However, after seeing “300” last weekend, I’d feel guilty if I didn’t take some time lashing out at pretty much the biggest two hour waste of life ever. Seriously, if you’re looking for a more constructive way to spend your evening, I’d suggest freebasing Drano.

If you haven’t sat through this piece of shit, don’t worry about me giving away plot details. Because this film had less development and character depth than “See Spot Run.” But that’s not why I hated it. Generally, if a movie has some cool fight and explosions, scenes I can hang. It’s not like Lethal Weapon 3 had any particularly startling twists or intellectual value. It was just fun to watch Mel Gibson vent his rage on the Chinese rather than the Jews for once.

Of course, this movie does have some redeeming value. I mean, if you’re looking for the worst 2 hour Sean Connery impression ever done, this is your movie. Also, the lead seemed to believe that he would somehow be more believable if he showed every tooth in his face each time he delivered a line. At this point, I’m just going to assume that Gerard Butler suffered some massive head trauma. Because otherwise, there’s really no excuse. I’ve seen less blatant over-acting in Jim Carrey out-takes.

Lena Headley, as the female lead, gets the award for worst half-assed accent in a film ever. If you got a bunch of deaf-mutes together, one of them would have been able to fake a British accent more believably than her. She’s not even TRYING. Usually she gives up on it halfway through each sentence. It would have better if she just carried around a cup of tea and spoke like a kid from the Deep South. Granted, I don’t understand the need to speak like a Brit anyway given that everyone in the film is supposed to be Greek. But once again, I’m assuming that some degree of thought went into this movie.

It was by pure accident that I struck on the real mind behind 300. My girlfriend asked, “Hey, wasn’t this done by the same person who did ‘Sin City’? What’s his name? Arthur Miller?”

I was about to correct her and point out that Frank Miller had written the Graphic Novels Sin City and 300. Arthur Miller (in order of important life accomplishments) banged Marilyn Monroe and wrote the “The Crucible.” Then I realized, “Is it really so outrageous that Arthur Miller directed this steaming pile of donkey shit?" Granted, he died in 2005. But given the complete lack of coherency this film had, it’s completely plausible that they had him exhumed and interpreted through a gypsy rolling bones in a tent somewhere.

“Arthur Miller commands that all dialogue will take place on cliffs, in front of sunsets.”

“Arthur Miller is displeased at the amount of man ass that appears thus far. He decries that there will be 500% MORE man ass!”

“All women will have painfully-erect, 6” nipples. Think ‘fully-aroused Whoopi Goldberg drowning in ice-water.’”

“Arthur Miller instructs that flamboyant homosexuality will increase by 2,000%. He proclaims that he wants a flick that makes ‘The Birdcage” seem subdued.”

“Ummm…are you sure that he said that? I mean, maybe it would be better if--”

“ARTHUR MILLER HAS SPOKEN!”

I can just see them carrying the bones of Arthur Miller around the lot at Universal, Arc of the covenant style: a litter borne shoulder height by eight, half-clothed servants. Producers, d girls, and agents all kneeling in the street as it passes on its way to a power lunch at Spago with Dick Wolf while a vacant-looking blonde tags along beside it, powdering her nose.

In summation, if 300 was directed by a year-dead corpse and acted out by a man with a head wound, it would have been a truly inspirational film. Not good one, understand, but still uplifting. Like watching handicapped people struggle against God’s twisted plan at the Special Olympics. Unfortunately, I learned, the film was directed by Zack Snyder who, despite my fervent wishes through the course of the film, stubbornly refuses to die. Like-wise, there is no proof that Gerard Butler is actually functionally-retarded. This doesn’t mean that he isn’t. Just that there’s no proof of such.

All in all, I give 300 a “6”…on a scale of 1-1,000,000,000,000: watchable only by those who’ve been repeatedly bludgeoned in the head with a pipe so often, they no longer realize that they’re speaking like a retarded Sean Connery.