It’s day two of the great comedy retrospective, where we look back at all the amazing jokes we brought to this screaming, stinking pukefight of a year. Today we celebrate the king of arm movements: The punch. The wave is all right, the wank is pretty good, but nothing beats a punch because if it does, it gets punched. It’s Punching Day! Punching Day is a surprisingly flexible thing, lending itself to everything from actual martial arts training manuals to wrestling cartoons, from video games to Patrick Swayze’s dick game, which has been qualified as “the punching of fucking.” Let’s take a look!
Chaz carries “dad lost in an electric slide” energy with him even when he’s alone in a studio. The man who brags about advanced martial dancers performing impossible feats of sweet, improvised moves looks confused in the two-step routine he himself invented. Chaz is a robot developed by ’90s stand-up scientists to archive how white people be dancing.
In 1979, the streets feared only one thing: author Sidney Filson. She wrote HOW TO PROTECT YOURSELF & SURVIVE: from one woman to another which made all other books look like frivolous indulgences. This is 151 pages of kill-danger’s-dick-with-car-keys Karate. When star scavengers are one day picking through the remains of human civilization, they will use this book as an archaeological marker to determine which woman died last.
Even in his prime, Steven Seagal ran like a Tyrannosaurus losing control of its hula hoop. Now that he’s an elderly man hiding his mass under a two-person centaur costume, the idea of filming him in a rush is unthinkable. So whenever he’s hurrying, the film replaces his movement with flashes of him teleporting across the screen. So when he’s in a chase scene it abruptly changes from a film about a cop chasing a killer to a stop motion animation about the ghost of a rock n’ roll pig haunting the dark alleys of Memphis, Tennessee.
The sound design for Rock ‘n’ Wrestling is what the inside of your head is like in hell. Instead of laugh tracks we get ghostly, disconnected guitar riffs that signify both everything and nothing. They’re your cue to laugh, cry, transition scenes, or get to your bunkers because Macho Man Randy Savage is headed this way and the watchtower guards thought he looked lonely through the spyglass. Sound effects are chosen at random, happen at random, and present at random volumes — there are slide whistles in total stillness, wacky Scooby-Doo scrabbling noises in the middle of sentences, boings when somebody sits down and bicycle horns when they walk through doors. This show is not scored, it is haunted by the ghost of a sound engineer who died trying to cut together Rowdy Roddy Piper’s insane yapping into a credible sentence.
Why does nothing fit him? Do they not make frog-closure jackets for Weebles? He looks like somebody’s squeezing a tube of shithead toothpaste.
If Night Man feels like a cheap store-brand ripoff of Batman that’s because this is a Malibu title, and Malibu is the Malt-O-Meal of comic imprints. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Eat shit, Malibu. I know the company is defunct, I know that society and good taste and justice have won out, but this is like hunting Nazis in 1960s Argentina. You’re not allowed to just commit atrocities and retire. This is Hunters shit, and it’s not over until I knock on your door with a copy of Mantra and a pistol.
Everyone in the Exiles sucks so hard it’s difficult to overstate. I’ll try: They suck so hard, if they were an album they’d be Imagine Dragons ironically covering NWA songs. They suck so hard, if they were a car they’d be a brown Nissan Juke. It’s not enough! They’d be a Nissan Juke with one of those family stickers in the window, only every member would be a Calvin peeing on a smaller Calvin until the final Calvin, who has to pee on himself. They suck so hard, if they were a sex scandal they’d be Martin Shkreli caught masturbating in a Foot Locker. Fuck! Nothing is landing. You’ll just have to meet them.
Here’s how Glen jumps:
Road House is not the Citizen Kane of bouncer movies. Citizen Kane is the Road House of newspaper movies. This is my third and possibly final column in the series I’m calling, “How The Eighties Convinced Men They Could Murder Their Way To A Bigger Cock, Inadvertently Causing All Of Our Problems Today,” and let’s just say there’s a reason historians refer to the eighties as the Road House of decades.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsors and Hot Dog Supremes: Rhia, Dean Costello, Nick Ralston, John, Jeff Atwood, Aidan Mouat, Adrienne Hisbrook, and Zachary Evans. The ultimate fighting team, whose group attack “The Punch Orgy” earned them the title “Least Desired Opponents.”