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.
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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.
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.”
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
Holy shit, where did May go? I did not write nearly as much as I had planned for ACTION MOVIE MAY.
Well, fuck it, we’re getting at least one more Bay up this piece.
It’s no secret that I am the undisputed King of Summer. Every other year like a ripped out, sun-kissed, charmingly stubbled Santa Claus, I come down the chimney of Spring to drop my precious, precious payload of adrenarone (when adrenaline knocks up testosterone) onto your eyes, into your brain, and then to your chest where it replaces your heart.
The only other person who makes as much money in the summer is Will Smith, and he works for me anyway. Shit, he’s sat out the last four years, probably because he was waiting for me to hit him back up after his movie about giving people his livers got no one off. It seems like only yesterday when we made a movie where the Miami PD invaded a sovereign nation, blew it up, and drove an H3 through a shanty town as the most personal “fuck you” on the entire planet.
Goddamn it, I miss that guy.
When I’m not busy changing the entire game with blockbuster after blockbuster, I usually go to Thailand and hunt people, but Thailand’s slowly getting it’s shit together so I’m going to wait and see which way the wind blows in the next couple of years down that way.
For now, I’m going to start hiring myself out to productions so those summers I don’t have something out my presence will still be felt, and the unwashed masses will have something to do besides soil themselves in and around Wal-Marts.
Like drugs, sex, and cases of .50 cal., the first one’s free, so I’m going to break down all the important releases this summer to give the studios a taste of what I can do with no rules and 15 minutes to kill. Read the rest of this entry
by Michael Bay
You thought we were done?
You thought I was finished?
WE WILL NEVER BE DONE. I WILL NEVER FINISH.
I had to lie low, and take it easy when Sheen took the crazy train for a spin around the this great nation of ours to the thunderous applause of NO ONE. He said the craziest, most coked-out shit I’ve ever heard outside of a private estate, elite country club, or bar they don’t let the unimportant people into, but here’s the thing, Charlie, the insanity must be a symptom of greatness, not the cause. Read the rest of this entry
Sucker Punch is where we draw the line, nerds. I have talked to you before about the one known as Munn, and her dark engine of success. In a way, Sucker Punch is a movie version of her; both feature attractive women in nerd fantasies without much authenticity. It’s an amalgam of every part of nerd culture, robots and ninjas and schoolgirls and battle blimps mashed into one pulpy mess like a baby brother making a giant food pile out of his dinner plate. If Sucker Punch succeeds, the studios will likely respond by drowning us in so much sci-fi waste fluid. Read the rest of this entry