Dear Howard

Dear Howard

Dear Hollywood.
Or whatever name suits you better. I'll call you Howard, sounds more personal.
You don't mind do you? Good.
Let me start over.

Dear Howard.
Please stop humping corpses.

In my local cinema there's a huge cardboard stand of Vin Diesel and Paul Walker. Its a stand advertising their new movie: Fast and the Furious five.
Five?
Fuck that shit. Five?
I remember once upon a time, around the time triple-X 2 went into production and a butch bald guy by the name Vincent passed on starring on the count not doing sequels.
My how the times have changed.
Now he's fronting The Fast and the Furious five.
Rumors have also been circulating for a while now that a movie based on “the hobbit” is in the making. That's just a bad idea. Now I'm not a fan of the books, so I haven't read it. I've seen the main trilogy of course, but every time I start reading the Hobbit I yawn, put on some porn and fall asleep. It don't even have to be good porn. I'd take any excuse to get away, because that book is frigging boring.
But based on what I've heard, mostly good things, it would make a pretty cool movie. Only not now. Not after the huge scale of the three Lord of the Rings movies. That's like following a Guggenheim awarded novel with a pamphlet of a short a story featuring a minor character on a tiny adventure. Its like making a sequel to Fight Club dealing with how bitch-tit Bob got his tits. And goes shopping for man-bras. And then it ends, just as the plot meets up with the main movie. Hugging “Cornelius”, in a special guest appearance by Ed Norton himself. Meatloaf fan that I am, that would still suck. You can't capture the grit, the brutality and glint of genius was that the original. Yet, they're talking about making the hobbit.
Good fucking luck. I think that corpse is dead, let those movies rest.

Even worse, according to Wikipedia, the online equivalent to the gossiping old lady, and just as about as reliable when it comes to this shit, there's a new Tom Hanks movie on the way that's gonna ass-rape a cultural icon. I'm talking of course, about Forest Gump 2.
Let that sink in.
Forest. Gump. Deux.
Now I love the first one, yes I'm part of that half. I adore it, I've seen it every other year since I was a boy. God damn it I love that retard, the skewed view of the world, the cute references to just about everything. Despite it being declared one of the top twenty over-rated movies of all time by a group of dicks I love that movie with all my heart.
I know its not true to the book, I know he becomes an astronaut in the book. I haven't read it. But from what I hear it differs greatly from the movie.
I don't give a damn. I don't know the version in the book, that's not the Forrest Gump I know.
Tom Hanks is Forrest Gump, my Gump. Or should I say was.
I don't want another Forrest Gump movie. That's like hooking up with a girl you spent one night with back when you were both teenagers, and it was perfect and right and the greatest night of your life. And now, ten years later, you're meeting for coffee.
Don't.
Yet this is what you do, Howard. You dig up corpses of my loved ones, drag them back to your lair and undress them softly. Pry open their dusty, rotting vagina's and shove your dollar-bill pecker into a pussy full of squirmy worms. And you hump the corpse that once was a beautiful being. That once mattered, and was special and sweet and all things good.
And you hump her, again and again. Blow live cum into dead cunt hoping to revive a semblance of what it once had. In the hunt for cash. For money.
You're humping Buffy, you're humping Forrest, You're humping V, you're humping Battlestar Galactica, star trek, star wars even the Smurfs. You hump like a catholic priest in charge of a summer camp for alter-boys.
Your shovel is worn, and your basement full of dead lovers. Dried up vagina's moistened nice with cheap butter and it ain't good or pretty.
But its easier than writing something good, easier than doing something new.
And its not like people care anyway.
Dammit Howard, you know us to well.
You ship out a sex-tape, two and a half hours of you grinding away on the corpse that was once a loved one, and we buy that shit. We pay through the nose, sell out.
We're all necrophiliacs, and we love you and worship you.
And you can roll in our cash while you rest your weary pecker, letting it swing free in the breeze for a while, before once again delving into your basement with a pack of butter in your hand.
Ready to fuck, to screw. To defile.
Because there's a world out there who don't get that they should hate you, hunt you and burn you alive like the Frankenstein you are.
You are the king of necrophilia, and we wank of to your sick art.
We are zombies, brain-dead and devouring. Of course a Zombie wants necrophilia.
They fit together like cock and cunt, both dead and rotting with bugs and worms.
Maybe we, the people who pay to see, should burn instead.
Somehow, somewhere, I really think we might anyway.

But please, if you can, if there's an ounce of decency left in your twisted scull, let that shovel be.
Walk up from the basement, out of your door. Take a right towards town, instead of left to the graveyard. There's a tavern in town, filled with wenches, dames and lasses. All kinds and shapes, all types and tastes. Try someone new, something different.
Perhaps that would serve well to the world at large.
And perhaps you'd even find the wet massage of a live vagina better than the squirm of worms and rotting flesh.


Sincerely,

A concerned spectator.