Archive for January, 2013


You know the drill by now: I dig (a little) to find some pretty decent horror flicks you either never heard of or never thought worth your time (and YOU’RE WRONG!).  Don’t argue, don’t doubt…just go find ’em and watch ’em. You’re welcome.

The Hoard (2009) – This little French zombie ditty (yes, it’s subtitled, get over it) is a really well done tale of the undead apocalypse from the eyes a small group.  Yeah, nothing original there.  But this group happens to be made up of two warring criminal families who happened to be in the middle of a bloody fucking shoot-out in a run down housing complex when the dead suddenly start to rise.  That’ll give ya’ perspective.  Surprisingly great acting and dialogue, gory as fuck, and an interesting study on loyalty and vengeance in the worst of circumstances.  And don’t worry, the french chick shaves her pits so it’s cool…

Scarier than zombies?

Scarier than zombies? Or just less hygenic?

Stake Land (2010) – Another tale of apocalypse survival (vampires this time) that actual takes it’s time to develop the characters it kills and gives you plenty of time to suck in the rotting, depressing environment in which it’s staged.  The frigid landscape is as much a character as the actors.  No one is safe and it really surprises with some gutsy (no pun) character kill-offs.  And any movie that has vampires being dropped from helicopters as undead viral bombs is worth the viewing.  Nothing happy here. You can probably find it on cable once in a while…it was in like five theaters for five minutes and made zilch.

Chernobyl Diaries (2012) – You probably remember the trailers for this on TV a little while back…but you didn’t go see it.  It only hauled in like 37 million, which actually is great considering its budget of 1 million, so technically it didn’t bomb. But do you know anyone who saw it?  Nothing ground breaking here, but still a solid, taut, suspense thriller shot on location, again, using the sparse and depressing landscape and architecture as a character.  Expect misery, pain, no happy endings, and lots of disfigured fucking mutants.  And a big russian bear (sadly, it does not ride a unicycle).

Which if unfortunate, because what's more terrifying than this?

Which is unfortunate, because what’s more terrifying than this?  I just shit myself.

Black Death (2010) – The Brits do the Dark Ages justice.  A tiny band of knights are charged to find out why some remote village has yet to be struck by the black plague.  Lucky?  Immunity? A cure? Witchcraft?   This movie is less about answers and climactic resolutions, but rather about the fear and weakness of man, and the tragedy of vengeance.  And there’s a fuck-ton of gory violence.  Four-way horse pull, anyone?  Who wants the torso?

The Tall Man (2012) – A box office dark hole but mostly because it was marketed terribly.  While it appears to be a horror movie (a slasher), it’s not…or rather it’s not the horror you expect.  It starts out as a decent, mysterious boogie man movie…then flips 180º and turns into a very dark social commentary.


As always…follow The Rant on Twitter: @Rickranter



Okay, total confession here…I’m not popular.  Yep.  Go ahead and close your gaping jaw, let the shock wear off.  You’re gonna be okay.  If you replied with some bitchy come back, go fuck yourself.  But truth it be.  I generally don’t like most people, and a sizable amount don’t like me much.  More than anything, most just don’t know me.  I guess anyone can say that, I mean how many people does any ONE person know.  But I probably know fewer people than you.

That’s how I like it.

Let me contemporize this a bit to really drive this home: I have 67 Facebook friends.

Yeah man.  I was extremely late to the game on that little cultural gem and only joined when prodded by other family members repeatedly. Of those 67, probably 30 are family.  And I think I have 50 of the 67 fucking blocked on my newsfeed wall-thingy.  I’m not very social with my media.  I’m not very social period.  I talk to like 1 of my neighbors…if I have to.  Vulgarity is usually involved.


Bullshit! I know those grass clippings on my driveway are yours! You piece of shit!

So why the fuck does someone like me have a blog (50 readers! Look out!) and a Twitter account to go with it (approaching 20 followers…almost…maybe by March) ?

2 reasons:

1.) I love hearing myself talk.  I know, I know…fucking shocking.  But how else can you explain why a social introvert with the paltry numbers I got bothers with any of this shit?  I mean, if you’ve been reading The Rant, you understand the “legal” reasons of how this began…but I’ve continued long past that.  I don’t bother with all the social networking shit to get more followers.  I read a couple other people’s blogs that I truly like and make a few comments, but that’s it.  I don’t scratch many backs…so mine remains itchy.  I could probably post pics of me screwing a horse on Twitter and wouldn’t get retweeted by a fucking soul.  But putting my words down just makes me feel good.  It’s a primal scream, I guess.  And I need it.

2.) What few readers I do have are fucking authentic people.  They tend to be people I have a least some kind of sincere connection with.  I know them personally or I interact with them in the web.  I didn’t get them with fake “likes” or glad-handing comments in their blogs or accounts.  I didn’t massage my way into some blogger community where everyone just reads each others blogs like it’s a communal requirement.  I don’t spam or use clever search engine key word algorithms. If I like or comment on your shit, it’s because I liked it.  Not because I’m trying to stroke you into liking my verbal diarrhea too.  I would only expect the same.  If we are reading each other’s posts on Facebook, it’s because we are actually friends.  And if that’s only like 25 people, than so be it.  They’re real.

The younger generations, the 20-somethings and the teens, they are basically plugged into this shit before they even try.  Every single person they know has a blog and a twitter account.  It’s part of their culture.  A 20yr old can open a Twitter account for the fuck of it and have 50 followers by lunchtime without trying.  That’s not to say there aren’t some funny ass kids out there who can seriously write, it’s just….thier audience is almost built-in.  They literally social network in thier sleep-there’s a fucking app for that.

"I Tweet about the changing colors of my toenails due to fungal infection.  I have 18,000 followers"

“I Tweet about the changing colors of my toenails due to fungal infection. I have 18,000 followers”

With my peeps, the one’s creeping up on 40, Facebook is for telling people what you had for lunch and posting cat pictures, that’s it.  Twitter is a female body part.

My generation has to pound the digital pavement to get any sizeable following in the web-world, and that just ain’t my style.
Me, I’ll take my 50 readers and be happy.

Thanks fuckers. No, really….thanks.

And if you really want to….you can follow The Rant on Twitter: @Rickranter


Caring for a pet or pets is, in my opinion, a losing proposition.  Unless you have the rare animal that truly earns it’s keep through manual labor or personal protection or has a genetic mutation that allows it to talk (fucking AWESOME), then I just don’t see the point in keeping them.  Of course so many people consider “the love and companionship” they receive from Snookems rubbing his hairy ass on your lap while you try to watch TV as payment in full.



I do not get that shit, but my wife and child apparently do…so we have like five fucking pets and none of them do anything to earn the food and shelter we provide.  Okay, watching the toad eat live bugs and worms is kind of badass (they can eat their weight in crickets and worms in one sitting.  I have an uncle kinda like that), but otherwise, they are fucking moochers.  Having said that, I have never been, nor will I ever be abusive to any of my pets…nor do I condone anyone else doing that.  They don’t have the ability to speak or communicate in any significant manner (except for those few mutants out there…if you have connections please email me!) so they don’t ask to come into your home.  You made that decision to bring some retarded, yet emotionally innocent creature into your care and brought that upon yourself so you have a responsibility.  And sometimes that responsibility is forced upon you by other cohabitants of your home.  Even if you have not shown great skill in such responsibility or asked for it in any way, you may find yourself suddenly charged with keeping a living organism…alive.  For an extended period of time.  And you can’t eat it when you’re done.

Back in my college days (if one year of community college and four years of “figuring out my major” counts) I lived with large brood of men who all had basically achieved levels of personal responsibility equal to “Get up in the morning, eat something, don’t die.” and we were all doing the best we could with that.  At one point, one of our roommates, upon returning from some co-op thing down south, comes home with a purebred Boxer.  For reasons we never truly understood, he named the dog “Sport”.  He did not play or like sports, but he liked  Polo Sport cologne…so well, yeah.  That’s the level of intellect you were dealing with in our little manly commune.

Yeah, I'm totally thinking "dog" here.

Yeah, I’m totally thinking “dog” here.

And getting a dog, let alone an insanely active breed like a Boxer, was a really fucking retarded decision for this guy as he was probably among the worst of us to master the “Get up in the morning, eat something, don’t die.” level of responsibility.  He frequently needed help in the “don’t die” part of that equation.  So, it came to no surprise to us when he announced that he was taking off for a couple of days over semester break and was leaving the dog at the house.  He assumed one of us would keep it from dying.  Luckily I and my best friend had zero plans during that semester break and were just planning on continuing our “Get up in the morning, eat something, don’t die.” regime.  So, the responsibility fell upon us.

Now the general tasks required in keeping a dog alive and healthy over a short period of time are pretty simple: feed it and let it poop outside.  The “outside” part is optional but suggested.  We had a front door and a leash so, yeah, it could poop outside.  Unfortunately, it was the feeding task that would be a challenge as the owner of this beast had subtly forgotten to leave any fucking dog food.  And we did not notice this until it was feeding time that evening, by which time we were both too drunk to drive anywhere…or even tie our shoes.  I think talking and walking were getting a might bit difficult by that point.  But being courageous and steadfast young men, we decided not to let the dog starve and die…we would simply improvise.  And that was how the Sport Shitting Catastrophe began.

We stood there in the kitchen at 7pm in the evening, a purebred Boxer with the temperament of a meth addict with Redbull running through its veins staring at us, and us staring at an empty bag of dog food.  But panic we did not.  We were young go-getters bursting with creativity and a can-do attitude.  Ha! No, we were just really drunk, remember?  I just told you that.  My roommate and I shuffled to the refrigerator and cupboards and began amassing a meal fit for a…homeless man willing to suck dick for food.  Nobody had done shopping in some time so the options were limited.  First: applesauce.  That had fruit in it and fruit was good for everybody, people or dogs.  This was scientific fact and were we not men of science? NO! We were just really drunk!  Keep up.  Next, we found Grape Nuts.  That looked like dog food and probably tasted like it too.  So this went in the dog bowl too.  Lastly, we added some slices of bologna because…ah shit, man…I can barely remember any of this part so just bear with me.

Sport, of course, lapped this little pile of human scraps up like it was a gift from the gods.  And gods we certainly felt like as we plopped back down on the couch and reveled in our clear act of graciousness.  What we failed to properly understand at that time though, was just how much FIBER we had just pumped into that finely-tuned creature’s body.  Applesauce is sort of a natural laxative apparently and Grape Nuts, well yeah.  Plus the bologna.  Who knows what’s actually in that stuff…but apparently all of these things turned poor Sports asshole into a shit bazooka ready to fire.  He alerted us to this fact by running up to the front door and staring at us while his butt vibrated like a cell phone.  My roommate got up and leashed the poor creature and was promptly dragged out the front door and into the front lawn just in time to witness a biological horror show that no man should be forced to see.  Sport proceeded to cover half the lawn in a fine layer of dog poo…without moving and inch.  Like he was watering the lawn.  With poo.  That shit-cannon just unleashed with the most ungodly sound you have ever heard. Like when the Crawlers hatched out of those pods in the Aliens movies?  Yeah, worse than that.  And my roommate was forced into a front row showing thanks to the leash.  From inside I could hear his pleas of “OH MY GOD!  OH MY…SPORT! STOP!  PLEASE FUCKING STOP!  This isn’t natural…”

"Lassie never did this! Lassie never did this!"

“Lassie never did this! Lassie never did this!”

After about 30 seconds, Sport was apparently spent and trudged back inside with my roommate trailing behind.

“Dude.  Something is wrong with Sport.  I think the Grape Nuts were a bad idea.”

“Okay, well…he’s done now.  So…whatever.” (I handle crisis very well)

“I…I don’t think I can ever un-see what I just saw man.  A dog’s ass shouldn’t do that. Seriously.”

I tossed him a beer and we went back to being drunk and watching TV…for about 10 minutes.  Then we noticed Sport was back at the front door and pacing wildly.

“Oh man.  I think he has a round 2 coming up.”

It was my turn.  I quickly leashed him up and was hauled outside with equal force…and it was then my turn to witness the fecal splatter fest.  This time he proceeded to duck walk around the lawn, dropping massive mines every 3 feet or so.  They were the consistency of toothpaste and smelled like road kill left in a gym bag for an entire summer.  My stomach started to heave.

“Oh Jesus.  What is that!?  We didn’t feed you that…”

The lawn looked the end of the Tet Offensive.  Carnage everywhere.  I managed to hold my puke until the end, as Sport was slowly making his way back up the porch…his body forced into biological acts that nature had never intended.  I trudged in on weary legs and collapsed on the couch.

“Maybe we should call someone.”

“Who?  Vets are closed.”

“Like…I dunno…a scientist?  That’s what they do in horror movies like this.  I think we are bending the laws of nature.”

“I think Sport’s ASS is breaking the known laws of the UNIVERSE.  The front lawn is gone man.  It’s fucking gone.”

We actually started laughing at that point.  Nervous, drunk laughter.  But it was short-lived.  Sport had already made his way back to the front door.  His eyes were locked on us.  Knowing eyes.

What have you done to me? they asked. For some reason, his voice sounded like Antonio Banderas in my mind.

"My cold, icey stare crosses species boundries..."

“My cold, icey stare crosses species boundries…”

“Oh my god.  He can’t have anything left-”

But Sport decided to prove us wrong as he began his final deposit right there in the foyer floor.

“Shit!  Open the door! OPEN THE DOOR!”

We let him out and he trudged not back to the lawn, but to the driveway…right in front of our cars.  He knew.  He knew we had done this to him.  He squatted and gave us a shrewd, labored look that only a creature that had experienced terrible rectal cruelty could show.

And he exploded.  One last fireworks show that whipped across the hoods of our cars like acidic chili.  He let out a howl of pain and frustration as our own cries of misery mixed with his.  Neighbors began looking out their doors and windows to see what the source of this terrible chorus was.

Sport slowly crawled back inside one last time and collapsed on the living room floor, where he watched us clean up his shit in the foyer.  I think he was too tired to even take pleasure in it.

The lawn never fully recovered.  Nor did the linoleum in the foyer.  Nor the paint on our cars.  But we never blamed Sport.  He was the victim.  We blamed the poor dog’s owner, who left us without any proper dog food and without any knowledge of canine biology.  And with the blame, came the punishment of having the previous contents of Sport’s bowels smeared onto his bedspread.

He moved out the following summer, taking Sport with him.  We would see him from time to time and would occasionally see Sport as well.  Though we kept our distance.  It was mutual.  After going through what we all went through together, he could no longer be man’s best friend.  At least not ours.  When he saw us he would still gaze at us in that shrewd, knowing glare…and we would turn away in shame.

Sorry, Sport.  We seriously thought Grape Nuts were a good idea.


Follow The RANT on Twitter too: @Rickranter