“Game on, F-ckers.”
by Michael Bay
I’m writing in this total isolation right now so I can have complete concentration and focus. I’m in one of James Cameron’s old diving bell deep in the murky depths of my Olympic sized swimming pool.
This is the only way I can control my uncontrollable rage and unquenchable erection. Isolated from the outside world by five tons of steel and the crushing forces of being eight feet underwater, I finally begin to soothe my temper, but not my boner. Never my boner.
I’m serious; I’ve never been this hard before. Now I’ve been hard. Like, real hard, but this is fucking Promethean. I have the boner of the gods. I hate fucked someone’s Buick in half.
I cut a car in half using only my penis.
Yeah, that’s where we’re at.
You’re probably asking yourself, how did Mikey Boom Boom get so rock hard and so angry at the same time?
Well, for once it looks like all the fat house wives in the flyover states were right, a movie is to blame for turning me from humble auteur and purveyor of thrill-a-minute-balls-to-the-wall cinema into a sex villain.
I decided to watch it because Tyson’s not returning my calls anymore, but I still liked the adrenaline rush of hanging out with a violent sociopath that could either kiss me or kill me. So I was scouting replacements when one of my assistants suggested Rampage Jackson.
He seemed to fit the bill: gigantic, imposing, had a rap sheet, and seemed as committed to branding as I was.
I began to scream at the top of my lungs until a copy of the movie showed up about 35 minutes later. I poured myself something to drink from a jar that had a rattlesnake in it, and settled in to watch.
At first I thought I was having one of those Fight Club moments where I realize that when I go to sleep a different personality wakes up and does stuff. Maybe my personal Tyler Durden, whose name would actually be Brick Stomplosion, went out and directed a movie while I was unconscious, but that doesn’t make sense for a number of reasons.
First off, I’m one of the most well-known people in the world. I’m first in North and South America, third in Europe behind Prince Harry Potter and that broad the French King is banging, and I’m a close second behind Yao Ming in Asia, so I think people would have recognized it was me.
Just to be sure, I called up the women from my harem and all 39 of them assured me that I never left the room, and that I slept soundly inside of one of them every night for the past two years.
Second, the movie has Jessica Biel in it. But they have her dressed like this.
Not like this.
I would have made her look like this.
But they went with this.
Other than that — okay, one more.
Other then that, this perfectly embraces the mold, swagger, and spirit of Bayhem.
In the movie we’ve got a crazy Mexican general, a man set on fire, a sexy baby with her titties all spilling out, really, really, really, mean dogs, torture, a black guy talking jive, a grizzled warrior, a van getting crushed by a falling air conditioner, an upside down helicopter chase, jet fighters, bad ass dudes saying bad ass things, and someone throwing up.
This is the first action scene of the movie.
I almost died because all the blood in my body stampeded into my dick like that bull we filled up with steroids and jet fuel at my last half birthday.
Then the movie just keeps going. They fly a tank. There are four prison breaks. There’s a machine gun fight down the side of two different buildings, lots of people speak in gravely voices. Every plan in the movie involves explosions. They spike a human being.
They take a living person, and spike him on the top of his head like a goddamn football.
I came like a freight train.
I find myself conflicted though.
On the one hand, here is a kindred spirit. Joe Carnahan gets me on a primal level. As animals, we search for a pack. We need a place to belong and we explain it as common interests or backgrounds, people who grew up where you grew up, or like all the same movies, but on that deeper level we’re looking for a pack to run with; one that will protect us, understand us, and stand with us against the outside world.
As beings touched by the spark of the divine we’re also searching for that other part of our soul. We are incomplete alone, and we need that fulfillment, be it with a lover or a close friend.
I may have found that with Joe Carnahan.
On the other hand, fuck that guy.
Yeah, fuck you, Carnahan. You think if you make two action movies you can make run for the throne? Hmm? You make Smoking Aces, which was all right for a movie with no car chases and really only one major action scene, and then the A-Team and you think you can take on the Caesar of California?
Oh, no. No, no, no, no. You come at the King, you best not miss. That’s the game, son. This is real fucking life. Don’t get me wrong, This is not a hate erection I’m trying to type around, far from it, and if you had come at me in the 90’s you might have had a shot. The Rock, Bad Boys, Armageddon all modern classics, but at a level that was still attainable.
Do you have any idea the level I’m operating at right now? I have 100 million dollars set aside just for explosions. That’s not to pay the pyro guys to set charges, or to get permits, or to even pay for the trucks to move technicians or equipment around. 100 million dollars just for materials that explode and burn.
I’m rewriting history and making the Autobot’s struggle for survival in a hostile universe intrinsically linked to humanity’s development. You think having giant robots fighting cavemen in the second movie was something? Neil fucking Armstrong went to the moon to find goddamn killer robots, piss in their coffee, and plant a flag in their asses. USA, USA, USA, USA, USA, USA, USA!
THAT ROBOT HAS A BEARD. Rules no longer apply.
That trailer might be a headfake. That might be shit that’s not even in the movie. I may have just shot that because I cannot give a fuck.
I might, only a little, though, wish that I had seen your movie before making the new trailer, There’s not a single explosion or people in a high speed chase yelling things at each other, and you have a guy zip-lining out of a skyscraper using only a jacket as he fires an assault rifle at someone ice skating down the side of a completely different building.
Well played, Carnahan, well played.
But know this, you have only succeeded in waking a sleeping dragon. I lost a step; I’ll admit because there was no even close to me. Tony Scott only wants to make movies with trains. Robert Rodriguez keeps heaving kids’ movies at the screen or making “grindhouse” style movies; which is admitting you can’t run with the big dogs and their big swinging budgets, and Jim Cameron, fuck, what the hell happened there? First he cries about a boat then he cries about a tree.
I’ve been a warrior without a war.
Thank you, Joe, for reminding me that there are still mountains to climb and shit to blow up. Thank you for showing me that even though I’m number one and will always be number one, from time to time, it’s good for me to come down off my lofty perch and get my hands dirty, again.
Game on, motherfucker. Game. The Fuck. On.
In all seriousness, the A-Team was a lot of fun. If you can hang with Bad Boys 2, the A-Team is no problem at all.
See you guys Friday,
Posted on December 22, 2010, in Character, Matt Loman, Movies, Pop Culture and tagged joe carnahan, Matt Loman, Michael Bay, the a team, this is basically fan fic isn't it?, transformers, transformers 3. Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.