Some love from Quicktime
Tasty way to spread the word
Then next week…to ROME!!!
(newsletter’s coming this weekend, peeps…all the poop gets scooped their first)
Ok…I’ve told this story so many times in the past couple of days that I’ve lost any interest in flowery presentation or fetching hyperbole. Above is video from Uwe Boll’s first fight on Saturday night (against poor, rubbery Lowtax from SomethingAwful.com. As you you can surely tell after watching a minute or so of wince-inducing blows, this was the real deal – the Teutonic Terror let his fingers do the walking, and direct dialed B for Blitzkreig .
In the saintly camp, the plan was for me to be the official ‘hometown replacement’ in case any of the critics were unable – or unwilling – to step into the squared circle. Up until Thursday afternoon, I was fully prepared to slip on the gloves and do my part for the cause…but little did I know that his handlers had something else in mind for me that fateful night. A pre-show press-event on the 21st was to feature the contenders and Dr Boll warming up at a local boxing haunt, and Uwe’s publicist suggested I bring my gear for some decent photo ops. Five steps into the gym with Kimmie V as my second, and we gleaned that stink was afoot – Boll’s ‘handlers’ were all wearing brightly colored tracksuits. They were sporting oversized gold chains and rings. Cigar smoke rolled thick as thieves, spiked with the scent of fresh violence. These men addressed me with a certain regional twang in their dialect – distinctly Old World in flavor – assuredly Mafioso in its aftertaste.
***History tells us something about Germans and Italians working towards a common goal…though I forget exactly what that prize was…perhaps due to repeated Panzer Hooks to the skull. But I digress…ragefully. ***
Once my gear was on, an oafish thug whispered in Boll’s grizzled earhole, “Take that guy on..make an example out of him.” So Boll approached and me to join him for three rounds of ‘light sparring’ – “40% strength…tops“. But by Round 3, he was charging me with wild, desperate swings, and vicious illegal blows (ie: elbows, forearms, and palms)…all because I was making him look bad. Worse – I had scared him. In front of the media. In front of his cast and crew. In front of his droogs. His posse was actually frightened for him…and he was certainly concerned for himself (if the Fangoria dude posts the vids, I’ll be sure to link it)…so he played dirty.
I called an end to the macho posturing with about a minute left in the 3rd, after three nasty clubbing forearms to the throat and head. I stared at Lowtax, and Chris from Rue Morgue, and the doe-eyed littleAin’t It Cool bloke – three suckling lambs with no pugilistic instincts whatsover, lined up for a narcissist’s sick buffet – and I attempted to transmit my pain and anger and concern directly into their naive little cyber hearts.
Too bad they didn’t get the message…too bad their goodhearted enthusiasm and foolish pride (not to mention the downright Chesire promises of gear and training from Boll’s camp) gummed up their good judgment…especially the 17yr-old ‘amateur boxer and Boll web-critic‘ Chance Minter below. Listen carefully…you might hear me screaming of Uwe’s crimes and cruelty about two minutes in
This is not over, Dr Boll. You didn’t fight me. You didn’t beat me. Your only victory was one engineered in ambush – molded from hollow subterfuge. Remember – you ‘promised’ to let me enter the ring after your fights with the critics, where I would publicly and officially challenge you to a real bout six months from now. But then what happened? Oh righhhhhhht…at the last minute, you suddenly need to back out of our deal – you make some monkey-minded closing speech, and essentially sprint from the venue with low-rent meatheads and crotch-fodder in tow. So, when all is said and done, the alchemy of Boll is far simpler than any gold-making attempts from baser metals; in the end, this talentless blowhard is nothing but a bully…a coward…and a liar. W00T – the trifecta.
Hear that sound?
The clock is ticking, asshole…
..and not just on your career.
The Twentieth Day
of the Ninth Month of the Year
The Clock strikes…KIRBY!
THE CONTEXT – Presenting awards for Best Director (Animated Feature) and Best Game (Console, Handheld, and Player’s Choice).
THE DIALOGUE – Woefully one-sided verbal sparring with acid-tongued flurries like the following:
B: “Dr Boll…we’re clearly having a lot of fun up here. Some quality moments together. ”
B: “It’s all flowing so naturally…like it was destined. Maybe we’ve inadvertently stumbled across the key to your next masterpiece?
U: (More Silence)
B: Just think, man…you…me…Buddy Picture.
U: “I don’t think so. No.”
B: “Oh come on! Can’t you see it? I’ll play the tall, handsome, charming, charismatic, and talented one…and you can be the German.”
(Cue collective howl)
Fight night this Saturday at the Plaza of Nations. No promises, folks…but if one of the critics bows out, there may be a surprise of the saintly variety on the card.
…at 4PM PST today. Add your mojo to the pool, brothers and sisters!
I am standing before my monitor.
My hands are raw from lone applause.
Join me, won’t you?
In honor of Al’s new tracks (have a listen to Don’t Download This… – I think we denizens of the vast Intrawebs can relate), here’s a quick taste of one of my favs…
“Ding-dong, man…ding-dong…ding-dong, yo”