Link to my article “A High School Junior Summarizes Marbury v. Madison for Her Fellow Millennials.”
Link to my article:”Five Tips for Nervous American Tourists Abroad.”
Link to my article “The Scourge of Sponsored Content (Brought to You by Snickers)”: http://www.pointsincase.com/articles/the-scourge-of-sponsored-content-brought-to-you-by-snickers
Link to my article “Welcome to Cafe Douchebag” on PointsInCase.com.
Link to my article “Fear Not, Gun Lovers!” on NationalLampoon.com
Jason Bourne is a Real Kick … in the Balls
Reviewed by Sonny Thompson for DecimalPointless and HumbleHeckler.com.
(Editor’s note: Film critic Sonny Thompson is recently divorced and openly bitter about the failure of his marriage. Keep this in mind when reading the following review, which is for entertainment purposes only.)
In the latest Jason Bourne movie, which is appropriately titled Jason Bourne for those moviegoers too stupid to remember an actual title, the titular protagonist is back and more dangerous than ever. Bourne has finally put that whole amnesia thing in his rearview mirror, and now he makes his living as an underground fighter. This storyline is clearly a metaphor for the horrors of marriage. Matt Damon’s Jason Bourne represents the married man: an emotionally exhausted, spiritually castrated individual, so lost and confused that he literally loses his identity, thanks to the soulless vampire who latched onto his neck and sucked the remaining life from him the moment he said, “I do.” As a result, Bourne (or the married man, if you will) must begin a desperate, at times violent, search for his lost manhood, a search that will cost him his sanity and inevitably lead him into one perilous situation after another.
For the record, Damon is awesome in this role. There are times when his distant, stony gaze says it all, no words necessary. For example, during an extended car chase sequence, there is a moment when Damon glares into his rearview mirror, and in that moment we, the audience, can tell that he’s thinking about that time when he forgot to do the dishes after working a double shift and his wife totally went nuts on him for absolutely no good reason. And it’s like, what the hell, man! How many times can I say I’m sorry? They’re just dishes. Chill! I mean, it’s not like Bourne forgot to feed the children or pay the mortgage or something. I mean, God forbid the dishes sit in the sink for a few measly extra hours. I’m sorry, but Bourne has a lot on his mind, too. I mean, it’s not like people are trying to kill you, Linda. Ever think of that? Of course not. Because Linda only thinks about Linda. And, let’s face it, it’s not like your job is more important than Bourne’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with risk management, but you’re not exactly curing a disease or walking on Mars, so maybe you should get over yourself and try to consider what life is like for Jason Bourne.
Okay, sure, it was a mistake for Bourne to say that the brown dress wasn’t very flattering to your figure. Bourne acknowledges that. But I’m sure he was just trying to respect your intellect by sharing an honest opinion with you, Linda. Maybe Bourne had just never seen anybody wear a brown dress to a cocktail party before. Oh, and by the way, it is an absolute crime that Jason Bourne has to live in an unfurnished studio apartment on the fifth floor of a six-floor walk-up, while you get to keep living in a four-bedroom house that Bourne continues to pay for. Your parents have money, Linda! Don’t deny it. Admit it, you’re only making Jason Bourne live like an animal because you’re a spiteful she-creature who finds nourishment in the suffering of others. Here’s an idea: go to the park and throw rocks at the ducks if you need to be cruel to innocent living things, and leave Bourne with the last dangling shreds of his dignity. Or go hide among the haystacks in an abandoned barn with the other shrews. But please, please, for the love of all things holy, remove your fangs from Jason Bourne’s swollen, puckered neck and let him get on with the rest of his life.
Oh, and Alicia Vikander is pretty good.
I give Jason Bourne 3 viperous divorce lawyers out of 10 and exactly half of everything I own.
(Jason Bourne is rated PG-13 for adult language, violence, stubbornness, refusal to have a civil conversation, the employment of jerk-face lawyers, the inability to take the dog for regular walks, and a total lack of sexual content for more than a year.)
Lights Out: A Scary Movie for People Who Suck
Reviewed by Shirley Franks for DecimalPointless and HumbleHeckler.com
(Editor’s note: Film critic Shirley Franks is an insanely busy soccer mom who hasn’t had a vacation in more than three years.)
Lights Out is a sometimes-clever, often-spooky horror film that absolutely drips with atmosphere. It’s the kind of shriek-fest that I would’ve loved 15 years ago, back in those halcyon days before I met my ass-bag husband and started pumping out ungrateful children by the bucket load. However, now that life has crapped on my dreams, blackened my heart, and shriveled my once-beautiful body, I find this movie endlessly annoying and relentlessly un-scary.
The story of Lights Out concerns a mysterious ghost-lady with Medusa hair and terrible posture who appears in the dark and disappears in the light. Oooh, I’m sooooooo scared! Shadowy ghost bitches aren’t scary … Five kids and 1 bathroom—now that’s scary. The appearance of varicose veins at 35—now that’s scary. Working 40 hours a week reviewing idiotic movies aimed at mouth-breathing teenagers, only to come home to a filthy house where I’m greeted by a sea of dirt-smudged faces screaming, “What’s for dinner?”—now that’s scary.
Teresa Palmer stars as the film’s sweet little cutie, who always looks daisy-fresh and is decades from worrying about stretch marks and episiotomies. So, basically … UP YOURS, TERESA! Enjoy that tight body and that silky-smooth skin while you can, sweetheart, because one day—maybe even soon—you’re gonna wake up in a bed filled with potato chip crumbs, next to a snoring, wheezing, ass clown that tricked you into getting married and then effectively stole every ounce of your youth, beauty, and zest for life, leaving you a soulless husk with prematurely gray hair and the disposition of a demon in church.
About 25 minutes into this obnoxious teen spookshow, I realized that I was still wearing my slippers and a pair of sweatpants dotted with scores of oozy, drippy stains whose origins are as mysterious and frightening as the identity of Jack the Ripper. Not to mention the fact that my ass-bag husband (in fact, let’s just refer to him as Ass Bag from here on out) forgot to fill the station wagon with gas, so I basically coasted to my critics’ screening of this film on fumes. Thanks, Ass Bag. Love Ya’. Oh, and I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in about six months. And I’m supposed to find this movie scary? Really? Give me a freakin’ break, Hollywood!
The only truly positive thing I can say about Lights Out is that I fell asleep for about a third of the film and woke up feeling more refreshed than I’ve felt in weeks. Not refreshed enough to recommend this garbage movie, mind you, but refreshed nonetheless. So, in conclusion, if you’re under 40, single, and childless, I’m just certain you’ll love Lights Out. Why the hell wouldn’t you? Life is a parade for you people. Every movie is a celebration. Every breath is a joy. You people make me sick. So, go ahead, see Lights Out and have a ball—and then choke on it.
I give Lights Out one stink-filled diaper out of four and every ounce of bile my liver can produce.
(Lights Out is rated PG-13 for “adult” language and “adult” situations … As if these people have any idea what it means to be an adult. It also contains prancing nubile bodies, the overt flaunting of youth, and the potential to induce rage in anyone with a pulse and half a brain.)