Blog Archives

Nice Eyeball Virginity. I’ll Take It.

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.”

"EEE-OOO-AAAAH"

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

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Dear Celebs: Tomorrow, We Ride at Dawn Edition

Dear Darren Aronofsky,
What in the Screaming Blue Hell are you thinking?

You drop out of Wolverine as, perhaps, our only real hope for a decent movie starring the ol’ Canucklehead, to work on an “edgy” version of Noah’s Ark?

I understand that you’re a serious filmmaker, and that as a serious filmmaker who made Black Swan you are now in a position where you must follow up on that movie with something equally artistic and driven as that movie that also does as well commercially. You have to prove that you’re not a flash in the pan director, but that you exist in that rare Venn diagram overlap between commerce and art.

But you know who else lives that rarefied air? Read the rest of this entry

Michael Bay’s Guide to the Summer Movie Season

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.

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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.

"Don't hate the player; hate the game." 'HATE THE TAILOR.'

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

“Listen, I Can Explain Transformers 2…”

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

“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.

Fucked right to death.

Yeah, that’s where we’re at.
Read the rest of this entry

3D, B-tches.


by Michael Bay

You motherfuckers are welcome.

Yeah, I perfected 3D. I took the beast, wrestled it into the Uncanny Valley where I fucked it right in it’s pink little butt hole.

I know I came down pretty hard on 3D before, and I was right to do it. The technology was promising but like gunpowder, it took a while for it to reach it’s truest potential. Cameron got the ball rolling, but I had to show up and spray my genius all over 3D’s chest to make it the perfect vehicle to deliver my unique brand of explosion fueled art to the watch holes of the masses.

It also helps that I’m using, nay, harnessing 3D to tell a story that isn’t boring as shit.

“Oh we have to save the environment! The trees use the internet! Plug your head dick into the six-legged horse’s head dick and fuck your way to the top of this tree so you can jam your head dick in a pterodactyl’s head dick and brain rape your way across the clouds and into the hearts of a tribe of blue cat monkeys!”

Sick. They can just show that? Gross.

Read the rest of this entry

Up Yours, Chicago.

By personal request, my wedding gift to my good friend, JP, Michael Bay vs. the city of Chicago.

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By Michael Bay

Big ups to all my dick-swinging adrenaline addicts out there.

Mike Bliz-ow Bliz-ay taking a break from the set here in the shitty city of Chicago. Jesus, I’ve heard people complain about LA putting Thousand Island on everything, but I’ve yet to have a meal in this midwest hell hole that doesn’t come topped with sausage.

You like wangs. We get it. Stop putting brown dicks on everything.

You ever see so many fat people? Goddamn it, I hate it out here. Everyone’s like creepy friendly. If I wanted to put up with constant high-fives and “how ya’ll doin'” or whatever the fuck they say out here in the farm states, I’d have taken the tax breaks to go shoot in Canada, except for one thing: THESE COLORS DON’T RUN.

Except at pussy.

Speaking of, oh, yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Read the rest of this entry