Weaver vs. Steven Segal's Lightning Bolt

I hold in my hand a can of Steven Segal's Lightning Bolt: Asian Experience. Upon coming across a shelf full of 8.4 oz cans a while back at Big Lots, I have dreaded the moment when I would have to down this...drink. You may ask yourself why I would even subject myself to such torture, if the Agony Booth review of SSLB:AE is to be believed Honestly, it is simply to point out that I am willing to do anything to make a complete ass of myself, and for the reader of this blog.

Upon opening the can, I am hit with the overwhelming scent of...vinegar. Yeah, vinegar. After making sure I haven't accidently opened the product of a mix up at the canning factory, I soldier on. Pouring some of the contents onto the lip of the can, I can see that the "drink" appears to resemble carbonated piss, even moreso than, say, Mountain Dew.



The first sip evokes much the same reaction of the AB reviewer, like someone opened all of the cans of fruit in a supermarket, then dumped the pear, peach, orange, cherry, coconut milk, pineapple...hell, I think I tasted green beans...in a single container, then added soda water.

I've got a bit of aftertaste now, and I think I'm about to have to cut my tounge out. It won't be so bad, as I can NO LONGER FEEL IT!

Half the can is gone, and I'm now beginning to feel woozy and weak, and a new flavor has began to surface: dishwater. It's like I just finished the dishes after a three course meal, then dumped the dish liquid and food stuffs down my gullet.



The deed is done. I'm queezy, weary-eyed and ...tired. Energy drinks aren't supposed to do that, I thought...then it hit me. Steven Segal didn't create this to invigorate people, he created SSLB:AE to weaken his enemies before he snaps their necks. I think my conclusion is quite easy to reach.... I have fallen into a cunning trap set by Steven Segal, at fifty cents, I overpaid, and finally...

I'm a complete fucking idiot.

-Weaver

P.S. I originally posted this on the Rotten Tomatoes Off Topic forum on February 1st of this year.  I've reposted it to a) allow people who hadn't read it to do so and b) to reinforce the fact that I am a complete fucking idiot.  By the way, I also have a can of Cherry Charge in the deep recesses of my fridge.  I don't plan on testing that anytime soon.

Weaver & Jed vs. Themselves

W: My name is Andrew Weaver, 22, a Libra, a member of the AriZona Tea Drinkers Fan Club, straight dude and a drug-free guy, despite what those who know me would say.

J: My name is Jeremy "Jed" Siple, , 21, a Gemini and out and proud homosexual who enjoys watching NASCAR racing (tell me the last time you heard that).  I also am drug free no matter what my criminal record says.

W: Together...WE FIGHT CRIME!  Ok, not really, but it sure beats "we work dead end job in the middle of nowhere" doesn't it.  Jed and I met in 2002 at Jeff Tech in Reynoldsville, PA.  He had just transfered there from another precinct, a brash rookie, and I was the aging veteran only three days from retirement.
J: What a load of bullshit!  I actually came from Brockway Area Hell District after putting up with the intollerable queer bashing and there met Weaver, my life partner, er, best friend.  Together we have been reviewing and ridiculing the worst in pop culture and elsewear ever since.  We watch the worst movies, listen to the worst music, and play the worst video games.  We need help.
W: I'm to blame for the bad movies.  I pointed his mouse to BadMovies.org and he's never been the same since.  To think, if it weren't for me, he'd be a well paid accountant doing favors for closeted homosexuals, instead of a catalog rep for a department store doing favors for out homosexuals.  Vast difference.

J: After getting together at his house one night, we suddenly came up with a plan.  A plan so groundbreaking, so revolutionary, so visionary, 50 Deadhead stoners in their most amazing trip could not have conceived it.  And that plan was:  we really need to blog this shit!
W: This is the result: SUBSTANDROTRON!  So named for a really bad Transformers rip-off called Transmogrifiers.  Instead of coming from Cybertron, these guys come from SUBSTANDROTRON!  Therefore, SUBSTANDROTRON is the home base for the ultimate in crap: movies, TV, music, sports, wrestling, toys, and all the rest of the stuff no one else online will touch...except everyone else who blogs about this shit.

...

SUBSTANDROTRON!!!

J: Stop it.  Anyway, we hope you enjoy our blog.  We hope that every time you watch Barbarella, every time you listen to William Shatner try to sing, every time you drink a refreshing can of Stephen Seagal's Lightning Bolt Energy Drink, hopefully you'll think of us.  And cry.
W: Big, wet tears of suck.  That sounded wrong, didn't it?
J: Yes, it did.
W: ...I'm cool with that.

Weaver & Jed

Weaver & Jed vs. "Manos" The Hands of Fate

W: I have no idea what we can write.  Any ideas?  
J: Well, personally I've always thought that if we for whatever reason did start a blog like every other sissy on the internet, our first post should be about "Manos".  
W: That's not a bad idea.  Hell, we've watched it enough damn times, I'm sure we can crank out a little thing without really needing to do any more watching.
J: Perhaps we should explain ourselves.  "Manos" the Hands of Fate was an extremely boring tedious and wretched piece of cinematic garbage made in 1966 by a man who made a living selling a different kind of shit.  The very fact that we have watched it so many times proves that we are, indeed masochists.  It is a wonder that we are not right this moment in a leather bar getting whipped by Dungeon Dan and screaming for mercy.



W: Getting away from Jed's Memorial Day plans, "Manos" is the "Brain"child of one Hal P. Warren, an El Paso fertilizer salesman who, in 1963, was bet by Oscar-winning screenwriter Sterling Silphant that he could not make a movie and get it released.  Warren, not being of sound mind, took the challenge and hammered out a screenplay for a horror movie.  No he wasn't drunk...I think.
J: The very fact that anyone who received an Oscar would even associate themselves with someone who makes money from collecting cow excrement and selling it door-to-door is astounding to me.  Though they didn't give Madonna an Oscar for Evita (she so deserved it).  Anywho, the movie is repulsive in that the cinematography is borderline psychotic.  the acting is amateurish at best, and the film has more mistakes than...uh...
W: The Iron Sheik taking an English test after his usual half-ton of coke?
J: Thank you.  
W: No prob.

W: The film tells the heartwarming story of the worst father ever and his unfortunate wife, child and dog as they drive for what seems like eons before parking in front of a house that pops out of nowhere.  There they meet Torgo, part man, part goat, part Joe Cocker and all embarassing.  Soon the night takes a turn for the worse as the car breaks down, the dog gets Alpo'd and the drive-thru-speaker voiced daughter escapes.  This means the father has to grow a pair and save his family.
J: NOT!!!  Please, the man goes outside, waves a flashlight around, and merely stares as she stands next to a mean, vicious, okay so he looks just like one af the cast's family pet (which he was), dog, but we'll play along for now.  After the daughter talks to her parents (I use the word "talks" loosely), we come a across the main point of the plot (I also use the word "plot" loosely).  We see a demonic looking Frank Zappa laying on a "stone" table and surrounding him are 6 women in translucent gowns and wearing sexy lingerie, strike that, granny panties.  When the Freddie Mercury look-a-like awakens we learn that he is the evil Master that runs the place and he wants yet another catatonic bimbo to be his seventh wife, namely, our main character's spouse.  But alas, there is dissention in the ranks and chaos ensues.

W: The six brides suddenly break into what can only be described as the world's least sexy catfight, with all the women rolling around in the dirt, scratching and clawing for upwards of twenty minutes.  Christ, now I know what Vince McMahon dreams about.  Cut to more shots of Torgo rubbing our heroine's hair, Mike, her husband, running around the desert and the Master looking like John Ratzenberger's child-molester cousin.  Sounds like my last Fourth of July cookout.  Alas, Torgo is sacrificed (i.e. his hand burns off and he goes running [limping?] into the night), Mike, his lady and his kid are cornered and the Master demonstrates his magic ability to make the camera lose focus.
J: So by now the "plot" is winding down and I suppose oy're all expecting the good guys to win the day and the family escapes somewhat intact.  You silly sacks!  The idiot father decides that the best course of action is to return to the very last place where he was seen by the Master, his own house.  The Master corners our intrepid hero who shoots at him to no avail.  The cameraman falls over drunk and the shot becomes a blur.  Next, it's as if the movie is starting all over again.  Jesus Christ, don't tell me I've got the DVD player is set to loop.  But no, this time we see two women in a car together. (I"m guessing dykes).  They stop at the amazing magical house that appears out of nowhere and are terrified by the most idiotic and completely disgusting surprise ending ever! (Can you say pedophilia implied?  I thought you could!)  
W: "Master, Chris Hansen on line two!"  

W: Jed, we can't forget the two teenagers who appear randomly throughout the film, necking and drinking Robitussin and the two law men who make Roscoe P. Coltrane and Enos look like Jethro Gibbs and Columbo.  It takes a special kind of man to make something this shitty, and, as we mentioned earlier, it helps if you are in the shit trade.  The thing about this movie is that it's only about 70 minutes long and feels like double that.  The driving sequences take forever at both ends, and the close-ups take so long you'd think you were watching a slideshow.

J: This is only compounded by the fact that the music can only be described as something stolen from a mini mall musak system.  It says a lot when virtually everyone involved with this movie never went on to do anything else ever again, and the "actor"  (again, I am being loose with the terminology here) who played Torgo killed himself shortly before the film premiered.  Perhaps "Manos" had nothing to do with it, but personally I think that having your face, name and likeness forever associated with this sorry sack of dog cum could not have improved his self-esteem any.  This is, in my opinion, the worst movie of all time.  It is a proud fixture in my DVD collection, right next to Space Mutiny and Gigli.

W: This is where I disagree with my cohort.  Personally, I believe that The Beast of Yucca Flats is more deserving of that title, but that's a discussion for another time.  Hopefuly, next month.  However, I don't think there will ever be another film so poorly made as "Manos" The Hands of Fate.  BTW, Manos is Spanish for hands, making the film title "Hands" The Hands of Fate.  Just one more nail in a coffin now more metal than wood.

J: Ooh, fancy.

Weaver & Jed

J: P.S.  I've just realized that the word "alas" was used twice in this blog.  I believe that's the most internet alas usages since that cunty Sarah Brightman fan forum I got kicked off of.