“The first-ever BMW 2-series.”
Just great. Now we can have people with even lower credit scores driving like complete fucking assholes. At least the Mini Cooper owners will have some competition.
On a much more positive note, I imagine a future where the leading Kickstarter campaign utilizes alien-level tech to siphon some of that perpetual right-turn signal energy from every Toyota Avalon to allow a percentage of Infiniti and Lexus drivers to experience the thrill of illuminating at least one blinker bulb at some point in their vehicle’s life cycle.
Far be it for me to dump on a dream, but no matter how good the food or service or atmosphere, I’d imagine that the hardest part of opening your own artisanal grilled cheese sandwich restaurant would be realizing that you’d never really have any “regular” customers.
Having had the song stuck in my head for nearly three days, I have concluded that I am NOT a rock, and I am no island.
I’m somewhere between a Nerf-like consistency and soapstone, perhaps, bordering on doughy, depending on what I ate for dinner the night before. And possibly more of a jetty or an isthmus or a peninsula, even. It’s not a commitment thing by any stretch, but more of some Darwinian deal, in which I’d prefer some form of diversity, yet I select to have this marshy land that’s difficult to traverse to get to the core of my land mass, you know? Not fully secluded, but certainly not to the point of having an Applebees and four Starbucks. A small town with some cultural history, yet not enticing to hipsters. Like sort of dangerous-looking, but mostly due to the abandoned, half-stripped car sitting on the corner near that really tasty rib place.
I’m sorry, Paul Simon, but while you touch no one, and no one touches you, I simply cannot keep my hands off of myself. And this isthmus/jetty/peninsula-man thing cries.
Indecisiveness kills creativity.
…or maybe it’s procrastination. Or lack of concentration. Or constantly changing the goals. Or not knowing what you want, but knowing that when you see it that you might want it. It could be indecisiveness, after all. Or perhaps poor communication. Or even weak technical proficiency disguised as managerial prodding. Or some design-by-committee thing. Or not having a predefined idea of just where any of it is going in the first place. Or some time-management thing, maybe?
It’s a lot to think about, really. What if it’s just too damned many choices, or comfort in doing things the same fucking way they’ve always been done, and then knowing that no matter how much of a let-down it will be when the results are always the same, that the feel of that safety net always gives some reassurance in an odd way? Like being cuddled sweetly with a noose.
It brings us full-circle: Indecisiveness kills creativity. …or perhaps over-thinking the indecisiveness kills it. I’ll ask my team and get back with you.
Giving this much more thought than it probably deserves:
The guy is a shit-show. He’s a fan-boy at best, and comes across as some spoiled douche who picked up a few Force tricks on YouTube, and has some ghetto-looking cosplay thing going on (“I’M NOT DARTH VADER!! I AM AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER!”). He’s like a third-rate swordsman…? Light saber… ist? Anyway, he’s the equivalent of a kid trying out the lightsaber toys at Target after just having the casts removed from his experimental arm-lengthening surgery and having spent several months on a Tilt-a-Whirl. He may have been better to go with a blaster (consider the genius of a sun lamp-powered Endocrine Blaster: BRILLIANT FLASH OF LIGHT. “Skin cancer, motherfucker!!”), or maybe just have a few henchmen… I mean aside from the Stormtroopers. Like a couple of guidos or some shit. SPACE GUIDOS. I’d buy the shit out of those action figures. But I digress. Han Solo was carbonized in Empire, and that got me thinking about how that event may partially explain just why Kylo there is such a mess. It comes down to two words:
I’d imagine that Han’s boys didn’t have time to creep fully into a safe zone when he was dipped into the freezer. I mean, physiologically-speaking, I’m sure they were a little closer to his taint at the crucial moment than, say when he was shooting Greedo in the dick (which broaches another of my long-standing theories regarding hands being lopped-off NUMEROUS times across films, and Greedo being shot in the – where I’d be led to ASSUME it to be, anyway – dick, and the incredible undertones of Han’s post-freezer blindness and the Ewoks having arms just a touch too short to well… touch, and how all of this ties into Jedi Masturbation)… After all, he’d be pretty stressed, I’d imagine, and in fight or flight, the balls tend to move inboard and all (ironically for protection and ease of movement when running), but still, the whole process went quickly, so I’d have to imagine that there was some damage. That considered, even after a couple of years between movies (I’m thinking he and Leia probably hooked up in the treehouse at the end of Jedi, as it puts the timeline fairly close, considering Kylo’s age and whatnot… I’d bet there’s a fucking treasure trove of fan fiction out there describing that night, especially the use of more parts from IG-88), those boys were probably swimming a bit, but still relatively fucked-up. Kind of like when you just stand up after laying around for a while, or when you’re super cold, and your extremities move all slow-like. Consider that nearly twenty percent of sperm frozen in a proper sperm-freezing setting don’t survive undamaged. Now multiply that by a factor of third-tier characters in a stockroom playing with a machine manned by some rodent-faced midget things.
My hypothesis then, is that Kylo Ren, aside from having a mother with some serious daddy issues, and probably also suffering a bit from the interrogation with Darth Vader (not to mention all of her drinking in the years since… I mean holy shit, her head is easily three hat sizes larger in the new film), is probably a bit off due to Han’s genetic material, messed-up when improperly frozen and thawed. Not to mention the stresses on DNA from all of that light speed nonsense, and always fiddling with leaky reactor cores and other shit. Kylo isn’t some malleable plaything for Voldemort’s third cousin Snooky; he’s a marginally-functioning bag of skin, filled with some jambalaya of horrifically-mistreated, loosely-coiled-at-best genetics. This certainly doesn’t absolve his parents from their poor work raising the dickhead, but it could potentially go a ways in getting him some disability pay and much-needed therapy. I’d assume that the Empire has some coverage, not to mention a few advocacy groups. I offer a solution because I’m a giver.
I had gotten too busy, and neglected to post this theory in a fan forum on the fourth as a sort of digital wedgie for that crowd. Lucky for you, I decided to type it all here. And while I should have really posted it on the fifth (“Revenge of the Fifth” and all), I figured it may be even creepier to post it today, as it’s the birthday of Renz Kyle, a YouTube personality, which may be the channel that our pal Kylo got his sweet moves from, bringing this whole shit-show full-circle.
Let’s see Fallon try something this advanced.