Category Archives: Character
What the fuck is this fucking shit? Avengers crushes the record for opening weekend gross? They took the record that I earned with my blood, sweat, and cinematic seminal fluids from me?
You come at me, Michael Bliz-ow Bli-zay, the one summer I take off to gather my strength to make a comedy and prep for Transformers 4: a World without Shia, and you think I wouldn’t notice?
You think you’re the fucking king of summer, Avengers? You think Bliggity Bay get soft?
Now you want to run around, talking about breakdancing robots tearing each other arms off, like I ain’t got none? You think I sold them all, just because I’m well off?
Think you can talk that shit like it won’t get back to me? Like I’m not everywhere?
Motherfuckers think you can forget about Bay?
War, it is.
Read the rest of this entry
I really did try to walk away. I wanted to make some dark comedies, maybe do some more personal movies like George Lucas. I truly, truly, wanted to grow as an artist and a person and let people know that there was more to the bronzed god known in some circles as Mickey Blizow Blizay.
Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect. It turns out that instead of finally sating all of you explosion slut hounds with my magnum goddamn fucking opus, Transformers: Dark of the Moon, I’ve only made you harder. I’ve created a vacuum in your lives that’s only been filled with deep longing; your turgid curiosity beginning to swell to painful levels.
Rest assured; I will give you release. Gentlemen, we’re going to paint the goddamn ceiling of your bedroom, your car, and 4,500 screens across the country the color “man white.” I’d go so far as to suggest that maybe you wear galoshes and tuck your pants into your fucking boots because the floor of those theaters are going to be soaked once I get done with the ladies. They’re going to have to burn the seats after every showing to keep from attracting roving packs of feral cats. Nine months after Transformers 4: Adjective Noun Verb there’s going to be a shitload of kids born that look an awful lot like yours truly.
(transcribed from a press conference earlier today)
Ladies and gentlemen of the press.
My loyal constituents.
I’m sure by now, you’ve all heard the rumors that have been circulating the news stations about some of my recent activities. Some are saying that I may have paid a young, hairless man to spend an evening with me at a small hotel just outside of our state capital. Some are saying that the nature of our rendezvous was sexual in nature. Some have even had the audacity to imply that I may be a homosexual. I’ve come here today, to set the record straight. My policy has always been one of transparency and honesty when it came to the actions I take both inside and outside of my office. And I think that now more than ever, it’s important that I be upfront with the people who voted me into this position. Because, ultimately, they’re the only people who I must answer to.
The dust has settled and the summer movie season has limped in to the dumping ground of August, and who is the king?
That would be me.
Fun fact, the summer is limping right now because I fucked it into submission, and there’s an awesome chance I might have completely restructured how the summer’s hips work due to my erotic slamming.
I dominated America. I dominated it.
I almost won overseas except for Pirates of the Caribbean: Captain Depp Wears Eyeliner and Pretends He’s a Rockstar. Which is fine. If that’s what the rest of the savages populating the world love in a movie, I’m happy, so very, very, very happy to not be what those assholes want.
I know; I didn’t please the people who gave us Coldplay, Radiohead, and where the punchline for every joke is someone wearing a dress or awkward silence. “Oh, boo-hoo, France, who already thinks we suck, only approves of some bisexual dynamo giving hairless young men in uniform syphilis and ass scurvy.”
Colin Firth, The King of Europe, nervously approaches a large, crowd of British folks, all looking at him through bifocals and double monocles.
As he reaches the podium, a small boy with cancer that we’ve grown to love the entire movie, hoists up an enormous microphone to him. The King pats him affectionately on the head.
LIL’ CANCER BOY: Oi yer gonna do it, King!
The boy coughs and spits out a black lump of something.
THE KING: Hello, People of New Europe. I have come to talk to you about the importance of good diets. And also of the German menace that encroaches on our lands.
Off in the distance a German War Blimp bombs the textile district of London.
THE KING: We were fools to ignore the signs. When Hitler II sent us that video telegraph of him eating a cooked baby like a Thanksgiving turkey, silverware and all, we should’ve known he was up to no good. Again, we were fools. And as your king, I am thus The Foolish King.
PEASANT 1: Hey, that’d also be a good title for a movie.
PEASANT 2: Shut up. Hitler II blew up my house with a robotic blimp. Read the rest of this entry
Please, God, let some little kid get abducted soon. He could be a little shit, just some brat running around in his front yard, with a mother too busy neglecting him by making dinner in the kitchen. Some pervert scoops him up, leaves no obvious clues, and Nancy survives for another three months.
That kid’s blood is going to pay for my kitchen expansion. Perhaps I’ll name it after him or her (it’s probably going to be a her). Or perhaps I’ll call it Cold Justice, since I have a new refrigerator coming in as well.
I care about these kids. I name each of my house’s expansions after them. Little John Bennett, I loved her. I loved her so much that I rearranged the tiles in my walk-in shower to look like the last living photo of her. No, I wasn’t a TV show journalist at the time; I just cared. Read the rest of this entry
Note From Management: This post from Mr. Bay is spoiler-heavy. When we pointed that out to him, and explained that not everyone would be able to see the movie in time for his triumphant post movie release column, he started slapping Chad until he bled from the mouth and promised “the next motherfucker who tells me what the fuck I’ll be doing today is getting a dick right in the ear. Their fucking ear!” At Nonstop Karate our charter clearly states under Rule Number 3: “If Anyone Gets a Dick Put in Their Ear, They Have to Commit Fucking Suicide and Will be Buried Upside Down and Have a Home Built Over Them So They Can Never Know Rest or Release.”
We don’t make the rules, and we don’t break the rules.
Well, I guess we do make the rules. But we don’t break them.
Be Ye Dutifully Warned, Beyond the Italicized Font, There Be Spoilers… Read the rest of this entry