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Nerding Day: The Day the Clown Cried
Author: Michael Swaim
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Nerding Day: Mr. Stitch đ
Although it has long been known that the swirl of individual galaxies is the product of black holes at their centers, it was only recently that physicists came to the consensus that there exists a similar and inconceivably powerful hole-like structure at the center of the universe itself which dictates the motion of all creation. By the mid-60âs, this idea had been explored but ultimately butchered in both Langenbothamâs On the Motion of Gravimetric Entities Orbiting in Fixed Spacetime (1948) and the last scene of Men In Black (original 1959 version). Definitive proof of what scientists have since dubbed âthe goatse modelâ wouldnât come until 1978, in the form of a small-scale simulation later packaged for resale to the public. The device used sophisticated laser technology to represent the complex rotational motion of the universe as a flat plane spinning around such a hole. The only drawback was that the discs required flipping in the middle if you wanted to simulate a full universe.
Then about thirty years later my Dad made me watch a bunch, then I landed this column – you know, the one they callâŚLaserDiscs in the Rain.
To really understand Mr. Stitch, you first have to understand what the Sci-Fi Channel was like in 1995. What the world was like, really. This was before Battlestar, before SyFy – the cloning of Dolly the sheep was a year away (at this point they were still just fucking sheep while wearing lab coats and holding clipboards). In â95, things were going from bad to worse for our nation: first there was the O.J. Simpson trial, then the Oklahoma City bombing, then the Internet became widely available to the public. Then, just when you thought it couldnât get any worse, a Sci-Fi original movie would come on TV, making all those things seem paltry by comparison. Youâd forget about all of them in an instant.
This particular Sci-Fi Original is a modern retelling of Frankenstein starring Rutger Hauer as the mysterious Dr. Wakeman. Get it? He WAKES a dead MAN! Hey, fuck you, you write a movie. Naturally, the monsterâs names are equally clever – heâs alternately called Mr. Stitch, Subject Three, and Lazarus. Get it? The third âsubjectâ or book of the Bible (in which Lazarus famously appears) is Leviticus, which details how sacrifices are to be made to God, much as our Frankenstein analog is forced to sacrifice his own connection to the divine in order to to bring life back to dead flesh and thereby ironically become godlike himself. âMr Stitchâ is because heâs got stitches.
When it came time to cast the monster, the bigwigs went traditional, landing on an actor that some would argue is almost too on-the-nose for the part: Wil Wheaton of Star Trek: the Next Generation. In fact, Wheaton got so yoked for this role that itâs said his dedication was the inspiration for Christian Bale going into Batman Begins.
Yep, thatâs him! I guess youâre probably wondering how he ended up in this situation. Letâs edit in a record scratch and a rewind effect, then start with the basics. This is Subject Three:
Heâs in a bit of a pickle, and by âpickleâ I mean a white void where John Hodgman and Justin Long have been replaced by Rutger Hauer and his floating eyeball friend.
Mr. Stitch awakens with no memory, yet a part of him instinctively knows that something isnât right. A floating eyeball, sure, okay, but if Rutger Hauer is smiling, something is very wrong. Our bandaged hero springs into inaction.
What follows is a painful and laborious rehabilitation process. Subject Three probes Dr. Wakeman for information about the world and himself as he slowly learns to walk, talk, and feel humiliation again.
He shows remarkable healing potential though, and itâs only a matter of weeks before heâs mastered even complex combat and infiltration skills, like disappearing at will and karate kicks.
His body now a finely-tuned instrument, Mr. Stitch turns his attention to matters of the mind. Soon he has assembled no less than twenty-eight stacks of books, which vastly expands his knowledge of both stacks and piles. Perhaps one day, he muses, he shall even crack open a book, and feast on its tender insides.
For now, there is a more urgent task at hand – securing freedom. The pitiable monster hurls a weight at the security eyeball and it proves to be filled with nacho cheese, a fortuitous turn.
Starving, he falls to his knees and scoops the semisolid food product up with both hands, slurping it down ice cold and not caring in the least. By the time Dr. Wakeman bursts in through the vagina-door on his science segue, itâs too late. Mr. Stitch is mad with dairy.
He quickly dispatches both guards and demands his bandages removed. At long last, weâre able to put a face to this thing of dark beauty, this life from death, this Prometheus.
Oh shit, heâs just Sally from A Nightmare Before Christmas? Thatâs kind of a letdown. Equally upsetting, Mr. Stitch starts to have nightmares that seem to be leftover memories from the eighty-eight dead people that comprise him. The first is of a car accident – a child, having their innocence ripped away as smoothly as sliding off a seat.
Or even being stuffed inside a tumble drier, for that matter.
But enough classic trauma metaphors weâre all familiar with! The tension between Stitch and Wakeman steadily ratchets up over the next week. The doctor even installs a port in the subjectâs skull that allows him to monitor his dreams, which apparently you just need a standard eighth-inch aux jack for. Whatâs cool is, you can plug your iPod into it and the music comes out his ear-holes.
But once again, Wil Wheatonâs sheer berzerker-like rage takes over, and with the power of a silverback gorilla he dashes the dream machine to the ground like so much eyeball. Instead of nacho cheese, it proves to be full of the yellow ganache that they use for the yolk in Cadbury eggs.
Wakeman is unable to rebuild it, since of course the eggs are only available seasonally. Desperate, the good doctor assigns his associate Dr. English to the case to see if she can develop a rapport with the creature now calling himself Johnny Lazarus the Vanishing Karate Mummy.
Laz quickly falls for the first woman heâs ever met, which isnât creepy at all. Just when it seems like those feelings might be returned, Wakeman abruptly takes Dr. English off the project and upgrades his segue to an adult-sized razor scooter to show dominance.
But you can only push Frankensteinâs monster so far before he pushes back! Specifically, pushes back with his thumb on the spot on your forehead between your eyebrows, which is a move I must admit Iâm unfamiliar with.
Oh, sorry, were you using that wrist to jerk off, jerkoff? Thereâs a reason they call him Wesley Crusher. As if to prove it, the rest of the movie is one long fight/chase sequence, with Wakeman and government forces trying to contain Mr. Stitch as he goes about ripping the lid off their secret program, which was designed to turn the dead into unstoppable killing machines for the military to deploy, presumably to keep those darn student protestors from cluttering up the quad.
Aw, look, he thinks heâs a Die Hard! By crawling around, Lazarus quickly learns that the complex is a secret government facility housing all kinds of experimental weapons programs. He further learns that that same fabulous facility full of deadly deadly secrets is only guarded by one guy chilling at a night desk.
One judicious headbutt later, Subject Three discovers Subjects Two and Four. His younger brother is a new kind of lab-grown supersoldier Wakeman plans to use to replace him, while Subject Two is, wellâŚthis:
To make matters worse, he unlocks some more dead people’s memories and realizes Dr. Englishâs old boyfriend is in there, which is highly confusing for the pubescent pariah. Mayhap it is that selfsame confusion that shuts off his ability to process peripheral vision so entirely that heâs immediately sideswiped by a car the second he steps outside.
Determined to take down Wakeman and his military masters, Lazarus steals the car and flees the facility. Wakemanâs fleet of go-karts give chase, because apparently the weapons program can afford to acquire eighty-eight corpses but not a black Escalade.
The guy with no memory and no experience operating a car easily out-maneuvers the government goons, sending their caravanâs only full-sized vehicle careening off a cliff so emphatically that the resulting cloud of smoke is skull-shaped.
He makes one brief pit-stop to tell a woman that although her son and husband died in a horrible car wreck, itâs okay because they live on both in her memory and as part of a freakish amalgam of undead corpse-flesh. She takes it pretty well.
As all heroes must, Mr. Stitch returns home, but changed. Heâs got his groove back now, and itâs with a newfound sense of purpose and jaunty perk in his step that he knocks that same security guard the fuck out on his way back through the lobby.
He quickly tracks down General Hardcastle, the man that requisitioned the Frankenstein project in the first place. He only gets one scene to prove heâs the Big Bad, and so has to cram four metric tons of on-screen evil into six seconds of writhing face.
Mr. Stitch ultimately opens a canister of nerve gas, sacrificing himself to take out both the general and Subjects Two and Four, ending the project for good. Dr. English is the only one to walk away, and she does so with a new appreciation not just for the partner she mourns, but also for the stitch-faced monster that he became a small part of.
Itâs a tragic love story, a cautionary tale, and the kind of film only 1995 and the Sci-Fi Channel could produce. I personally think itâs wildly underratedâŚand Iâm not even Wil Wheaton paying Swaim to let me ghostwrite his column for the week!
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Matt Reiley, who is also filled with nacho cheese, but you don’t have to kill him to get it out.
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Upsetting Day: Word Chewing đ
When an uninitiated is asked to define âWord Chewing,â one most commonly encounters a scatterplot of similar guesses: Is it a sex maneuver? Is it how theyâre trying to teach Gen Alpha to read? Is it the original Swedish version of Number Munchers? Dear god, Father Author! Tell us! Tell us! they scream, dumb terror in their piggy little eyes and slackened jaws as they read their precious satire website.
Wrong on all counts, genius. In fact, Word Chewing is worse than all those things. For those who wish to brace themselves appropriately, Iâd say itâs a hair less awful than those erotic tickling clips from the Tickled documentary, but handily worse than getting punched in the special ninja way where your splintered nose-bone shoots up into your brain.
Hey, here’s some now!
No, that is neither a flipbook of a man who photographed himself having a stroke every day for a year, nor is it a zoetrope of high-speed photos taken to resolve a bet between two 1870’s railroad magnates. Rather, itâs a sadly misguided young person doing – something – set to the song âSatisfactionâ by Eminem. I guess you could say heâs âchewingâ the words, but to me it looks a lot more like an AI-generated Jim Carrey impersonator.
The small cadre of weirdos who sustain the Word Chewing movement are taking making funny faces to its logical conclusion: getting everyone to hate you. Itâs kind of like air band, except instead of miming all the instruments, you just mime the vocals REALLY HARD. The equivalent would be a Pink Floyd cover band playing âMoneyâ by doing a drum solo with a Gallagher mallet.
Fortunately, articles hosted on Patreon lack embedded video support. I say âfortunatelyâ both because the audio on these is just the copyrighted song or quotable clip in question, making an aural component unnecessary, and because it shields you, my precious readers, from contracting a curse where everyone in your life slowly starts talking like this. These things are like the video from The Ring, but scary.
Word Chewing is also a lot like tobacco chewing, in that itâs a scourge that gives you mouth cancer (or if it doesnât, we should do science until it does). And despite all efforts to the contrary, its tumor-like growth has engulfed much more than just music. Hereâs someone chewing up a line from their favorite movie, Honey, Letâs All Kill Ourselves.
As with any weird trend, there are those who hop on the bandwagon to have a bit of harmless fun, and then those who center their life around Word Chewing and rehearse alone in their room for hours on end. A truly outstanding Chewer is like a good prom date – thereâs lots of hand stuff involved, a little tongue action, and about twelve seconds of rhythmic bouncing.
And remember, a Word Chewerâs face and part of their upper torso is their instrument. Just like a skilled actor protects and nurtures their body, many Chewers take special care to maximize face-appeal. For example, hereâs someone doing their makeup while also masticating the scene from Family Guy where Stewie gets his period.
Other perennial favorites of hers include the American Pie âband camp story,â the scene in Audition where the girl makes the guy eat a bowl of his own vomit, and the Ed Bradley âRevisiting Emmitt Tillâs Murderâ segment of Sixty Minutes. Once finished applying, sheâs ready to make TikTok magic!
Fun fact: this clip fell backwards in time and is actually the origin of humans fearing clowns. But makeup isnât the only augmentation a Chewer might rely upon. Eventually, as it does, CG came onto the scene, which many of the Chewing oldheads say cheapens what was once a noble art performed for the kingly courts of the Hapsburgs. There the Crown Prince of Austria would sit in his glory, watching stuff like this:
For the Word Chewing sea is deep and dark my friends, with currents and counter-currents. While some futz with their phones, others embrace time-honored practical effects, like a tear stick to simulate crying, or gloss on the lower lip to give a little pop to the nightmares Iâll be having from now on.
Toss in some legit moves, a hundred dollarsâ worth of lights and costume pieces, and ten hours of practice, and you can perfect the illusion to such a fine degree that it will make your followers feel like theyâve been sucked into a video game. Specifically, Dance Dance Revolution mixed with that VR headset that blows up your forebrain.
In-camera effects donât need to be flashy and expensive, though. Giving your Word Chewing vid flair can be as simple as taking advantage of foreshortening and forced perspective, like the great Peter Jackson used to make Elijah Wood small. Hey, speaking of making wood small, this repels me.
Still, what keeps me coming back to Word Chewing – aside from deep-seated psychological trauma that forces me to clutch masochistically at anything that brings me the pain I so deserve – are the unadorned classics. These essentially fall into two categories. Thereâs the folks who are basically just lip syncing really emphatically:
And then there are the those that compile a bunch of tiny clips and still images into a video flipbook:
As you dive in, the craft opens up to reveal its myriad layers. For example, like some kind of twisted mouth-jazz, a lot of the subtlety of good Word Chewing lies in the words you donât chew. Observe how this Chewer makes use of the space between words to explore the nuances of the music.
Mmm, subtlety. Incidentally, I would rather see my daughter start an OnlyFans page than a Word Chewing channel. But thereâs no time to focus on that, because hereâs an OnlyFans model showing off her Word Chewing skills! Personally Iâd prefer to have a sex worker chew on my penis than watch them chew words, but Iâd gladly pay them a monthly subscription fee to stop doing both.
Itâs striking to note that this was filmed as âthe talentâ sat in a car parked in front of her sonâs school. In the annals of parents embarrassing their kids while picking them up, this is the Mona Lisa. When the other kids saw her doing this, they all blacked out and instinctively descended on her son, ripping him limb from limb with their bare hands in a Dionysian frenzy.
In fact, Word Chewing in your car in public is an entire subgenre. Hereâs a human being born of another human being who once walked through life with dignity instead of shame.
Whereas Iâm constantly afraid another driver will see me scratch the far side of my nose and misinterpret it as a pick, these brave warriors are out in the streets working mouth muscles usually reserved for taking dental X-rays.
Ultimately, Word Chewing continues to thrive, and no comedy article full of jibes can stand in its way. It goes on evolving, as younger practitioners incorporate things like separate camera setups and real cinematographic and editing choices.
I want to stress that again. These were choices. This was a series of decisions made by someone with free will and in full control of their faculties. Itâs not like someone chained these people up and made them Word Chew.
Great. Way to make me look like an asshole, GIF I laboriously made and placed in the article. Just for that, Iâm ending on the duet between that girl with the eyes and that guy with the teeth! You brought this on yourself, fucker.
Now if youâll excuse me, I have to go do something more worthwhile, like practicing with my Tech Deck mini finger skateboard. Iâve almost got my pop shuvit nailed.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: CommonCentz, who has committed no face crimes the internet can prove.
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Learning Day: Rappin’ đ
A bunch of apes scrabbling in the dirt slowly coalesce around a silver disc of unthinkable size. The laserlight reflecting from its aluminum flank sears into each of their minds the sense of striving, the question that will lead their people on to a new state of being and tier of their evolution, agitating like the sand that forms the pearl: what if a movie had to be flipped in the middle?
Regular LDR readers, or âlaser babies,â know that this series traditionally focuses on a bizarre laserdisc my Dad inflicted on me at a wildly inappropriate age. Today we break that pattern, as Rappinâ, the sequel to the sequel to Breakinâ, should not be seen by anyone at any age, not even as a refresher to write a column if weâre being honest. Thereâs no tweak to the view-speed that makes it not a waste of at least some of your fleeting life. Imagine the pointlessness then – the tertiary, diluted non-experience that reading about it must be, like lining up with a thousand other people to lap at a trough of gray water.
Letâs do it.
Also called Breakdance 3, even though it features zero breakdancing and actually only a bit of rappinâ but mostly generic pop love songs, this nightmare is a sequel to Electric Boogaloo in the sense that kneeling in front of an open grave is a sequel to getting hit in the head with a shovel: you can sense that thereâs some connection, but the brain damage youâre suffering from undergoing the experience is making things hard to pin down.
Plot-wise and cast-wise, Rappinâ is entirely standalone, as if the Breakinâ series was set to be an anthology with entries centered around âI donât know, whatever dances theyâre doing. You know the ones they do.â This is a huge mistake in my opinion, as, lacking the structural framework of Electric Boogaloo to build from, Rappinâ loses its way immediately.
Do. Not. Format. This movie for televisions. It functions much better so zoomed in that itâs just a fuzzy snippet of flashing colors set to music and dialog. The more you can obfuscate the idea that this was ever supposed to be coherent, the more plausible deniability youâve already built in. Although, while weâre throwing some text up onscreen, how about a âContent Warning: production title thatâs clearly sex?â
For those of you concerned I may be mining the very first seconds of the movie for too long, keep in mind that when Iâm done we have to talk about Rappinâ, starring Mario van Peebles, the closest thing to a Lin Manuel Miranda the 1985 Hollywood system could produce. I forget what heâs from, so letâs just say he appeared on every box of Fruity Peebles and thatâs why the name sounds familiar.
The actual movie part of the movie begins with MvP getting released from prison, and packing up glossy, eight-by-ten printed pics of his loved ones, including one thatâs clearly a professional headshot. Because itâs 1985, he attends his credits closeup looking like Kid Chameleon box art.
Then he immediately backslides, tragically committing the same crime I assume he just got released for: rapping in real time about his life as it unfolds. And this is ’80s rap, so itâs more Sugar Hill Gang and less Kendrick Lamar. Itâs less Hamilton and more âWill Smith sure got overambitious with this credits song that blankets the entire movie.â
He raptroduces himself as John âRappinââ Hood. When a local vendor calls him a ârotten hoodlumâ instead, Johnny really puts some mustard on his hot dog – and I donât mean he clobbers him like in the ’20s sense, I mean he helps the hot dog cart man do part of his job. Itâs not exactly robbing from the rich to give to the poor, but itâs not rotten hoodlum behavior either.
After another small business owner calls him a hood and points at him like heâs the last human alive in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, you couldnât be blamed for letting yourself hope that this movie could turn out to be a critical, cogent treatise on race relations. Then Rappinâ Hood threatens a guy by doing a Fonzie move, and you know in your heart that this is going to be some middling theater kid bullshit instead.
The key players in our heroâs life are his grandma, his little brother A, and his crew, the Merry Men, a gaggle of actors clearly here to audition for West Side Story on an adjacent soundstage. Finally free after spending time in prison, Rappinâ Hood does what any of us would: raps with his brother about tapping ass while they Night at the Roxbury their grandma. âTwo of a Kindâ includes the lyrics âwe jump, but weâre freaks in a single bound / starting trouble all over town / if itâs rated X, we hit the back door / we donât stop watching ’til she hollers for more,â accompanied by vigorous hip thrusts. Granny seems on-board at first, but just follow her bewildered eyes as she casts around for help, or at least another human being to verify silently that this is not normal.
Anyway, then granny raps back. Clock it folks: seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds in, we have achieved rapping granny. While she only has a two-bar transition forcing A to do his homework, itâs still a haunting reminder of the kind of intergenerational cycle of abuse that leads to the existence of musicals people, certainly within the bottom ten percent of types of person to be. Iâm calling you out, Julie Andrews. You canât hurt us anymore.
That night, the boys attend a welcome home party, which naturally breaks out in a dance battle between two people who will actually try to kill each other a few scenes from now. I like to imagine the Sylvester Stallone kid is Rambo from First Blood (original ending) and this is his beautiful dream of a world where we dance instead of fight as he bleeds out. Honestly, as long as someone from this sequence bleeds out, I like to imagine it.
Rappinâ Hood spots another guy in a leather jacket, and naturally has to fight him for control of the room. This turns out to be Dwayne, Johnâs protege who now runs the gang with an iron fist inside a fingerless glove. So while Robin Hood tangled with corrupt cop the Sheriff of Nottingham, Rappinâ Hood must quash the gang uprising led by a monster of his own making. You can immediately tell Dwayne is trouble because heâs borderline abusive to his girlfriend Dixie in the exact way that either a middle school D.A.R.E. play or a Kids in the Hall sketch would feature, and because his dialog vibrates with spite and venom when he says stuff like âwhy donât you take a walk?â and âhey is for horses.â He even has a little Salacious Crumb guy who looks like he goes out to auditions as âa Peter Lorre type.â
Dwayneâs whole deal is that he wants to fight John to formally inherit leadership of the gang, but John has chosen the path of non-violence, making a brief exception to completely ruin a bathroom and one manâs mid-meal shit.
This turns into a meetcute when Dixie comes in to apologize on Dwayneâs behalf and is naturally aroused by the smell of an interrupted bowel movement. As Dixie and Rappinâ Hood quickly develop into a couple, pissing Dwayne off, it also turns out that a stodgy white businessman is trying to clear everyone out of the neighborhood so he can develop the area, and heâs forcing the task onto his assistant Cedric, the living embodiment of the animation cells from that one Simpsons episode where Smithers is Black.
So weâve got two major threads here: a love triangle with a rival gang member, and trying to save the neighborhood from a real estate developer. Both are well-trod territory, but if fashioned into a thoughtful rap, perhaps the novel packaging will lend some freshness to these time-honored storytelling maneuvers. Nevermind, letâs do a rap called âSnack Attackâ making fun of the fat oneâs love of food, and also the fat one is named Fat. His entire personhood is defined by his weight. His ID picture is somehow an animated gif of him eating a whole cake.
Fatâs hunger is explicitly treated as an addiction, as he raps âI know this affects my latitude / but what the heck can I do? I love food.â His peers reply with âYou better develop some fortitude / before your body develops a horizontal attitude,â literally threatening him with the specter of death if he doesnât learn to control his portions. Iâm not trying to be preachy or crazy body positive, it just feels a little over-the-top. Again, âFatâ is the childâs name.
As it happens, Dixie is assistant to a big music producer, leading to the strangest choice made in this movie by far: including quite a few non-rap songs. Scenes at auditions and recording sessions are used time and again as an excuse to have characters weâve never seen before and will never see again, mostly children, sing a range of pageant-friendly R&B and pop love songs. In a movie designed solely to capitalize on youth interest in rap and breakdancing, thereâs no breakdancing whatsoever and more than half of the songs are closer to being showtunes than rap.
Somewhere in the mess, John impresses Dixie and her boss with his freestyling ability and is asked to come in for a proper audition. I think the line that really got âem was probably â”green is the color of cash / the color of a rasta’s stash / the color of grass, color of trees / the color of boogers when you sneeze.” Meanwhile, Cedric hires Dwayne and the boys to drive the rest of the residents out of their homes exclusively by throwing food at them.
At the audition, Rappinâ Hood handily beats his competition, a bunch of Archie clones who sing âItchinâ for a Scratch,â the official anthem of the National Shingles Foundation. Hood instead freestyles about a drunk guy who happens to have just smashed a bottle over the bartenderâs head. The resulting riff, âLady Alcohol,â is notable in that at no point do the lyrics include âcall an ambulanceâ or âhey did someone help that man.â
Naturally, things also ratchet up between Johnny and Dwayne, to the point that Dwayne feels the need to threaten his rival by telling a story using poker cards, like a childrensâ birthday magician. And to impart some suggestion of the quality of the performance, he says âHey Johnny, donât forget – Iâm the kingâ exactly the way Tim Heidecker would, but for different reasons.
Cedric succumbs fully to evil at this point, and starts to literally dance a little jig as he updates his big map of people heâs evicted.
He conspires to cut oil off to the residents so they have no heat, so Hood and the Merry Men steal an oil tanker and distribute it to the people. This is the one and only overlap between the plot elements presented in this film and the original story of Robin Hood. Things with the lovebirds also escalate, especially when John says heâd ârather help the needy than make money for the greedyâ on a date, and it becomes apparent by her facial expression that Dixieâs considering, potentially for the first time, that her boyfriend might not just rap, but actually talk in rhyme.
Everything comes to a head when thereâs a brawl between the Merry Men and Dwayneâs goons, John finally forsakes his pacifism and wins a knife fight, and everyone heads to City Hall so Rappinâ Hood can freestyle at the whole town at once and get this grim charade over with.
This leads to a climactic rap so epicâŚ
âŚthat it makes Cedric swap sides, turns Dwayne good, flattens the white businessmanâs tires, inspires the City Council squares to clap and sing along, and presumably secures Mario Van Peeblesâ financial future.
This is followed immediately by a credits rap, because when itâs rap all the way down this is the kind of madness you must endure. Dwayne raps a pro-John verse over a banjo loop, John signs a big recording contract, and a random middle-aged mom who thought being a career movie extra would be fun now that the kids are out of the house tries to do a hoe-down and look rapper-y at the same time.
Itâs not the ending any of us envisioned, but at least we can rest safe in the knowledge that nothing can tarnish the legacy of Electric Boogaloo, because it doesnât have one.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme:Jaber Al-Eidan, who’ll put your ass to sleep like Thomas Church, Haden.
