Sylvester Stallone The Ageless Retard, A Sequel to The Worst Movie Ever Made, and A Horribe, Horrible Jenkem Trip

The tickets arrived a week before the scheduled event, giving me plenty of time to debate whether or not to go. By Wednesday I had decided to go, and spent the rest of the days leading up to the event mentally preparing for the utter retardation I knew was ahead of me. The event was a private screening of an upcoming Stallone movie, a sequel entitled Rhinestone 2.

Rhinestone was an 80's piece of retardation that made for perhaps the funniest movie not intended to be a comedy. Its a fish out of water story about country music. Stallone plays the fish-out-of-water, a New York cab driver stuck in the south and some sort of bet that he can't sing country music. The image of it all was enough for me, Stallone singing country, with Dolly Parton as his mentor, fuck buddy, and singing partner. Its Judge Dred dancing around like a redneck, its the Demolition Man singing just like a song bird, a song bird with a throat full of gravel. His singing is just as bad as you think, its so bad it makes you wonder who the retard was who heard country music, singing, and Sylvester Stallone all in the same sentence and thought it was a good idea. Asking Stallone to sing is like asking a football player to do ballet, it just aint in the blood, it aint what they're made to do.

I showed up early and said fuck it all with the red carpet, and slipped in through the side of theater and got some drinks in. It was an old theater, the kind with balconies and high ceilings with perfect acoustics. In its hay day it probably hosted a great deal of wonderful acts, maybe even Bob Hope, but now it had been reduced to showing smut films and shitty movies like the one I was about to see, Rhinestone 2. The gold decorations on its ceilings had once gleamed, but now they seemed dusty. The grand elaborate curtains had once been a fresh velvet the color of blood, but now it was molting, as if eaten by moths or rats or maybe both, and was the color of rust. I thought, so this is where careers come to die, they're all probably out there, getting their pictures on the red carpet - why would they want a photograph of themselves on the worst day of their lives? Maybe they don't know what they are in for.

But I did.

I spoke over the phone prior to the screening with a source who wishes to remain nameless. He had told me about the movie, it was much like the original Rhinestone.

Rhinestone: infinite lulz

"So Dolly Parton is gonna be in this one too?" I asked.

"No." He said. His voice sounded strained over the phone. "That's where its different, but still kinda the same. . . Instead of Dolly, its Ozzy Osborne, and instead of Stallone learning to sing country to win a bet, he's gonna have to sing heavy metal. . . So Ozzy teaches him, becomes his mentor, his fuck buddy, and singing partner. . ."

"Ozzy Osborne and Stallone? How the fuck is anyone gonna know what they're saying? They're both so old and retarded they mumble, not that it matters much I s'pose, don't think they have anything worth hearing anyway. . . "

"What you can't understand em? I hear em' plain as day."

"Guess I don't have the ear for em."

"I hear Kelly Osborne could be the love interest in the movie." He said.

"For who? Ozzy or Stallone?"

"I dunno."

"Either way this is going to be the worst movie ever. . . I've gotta see it." We said our good-byes and I hung up soon after that.

Back at the theater, they all started shuffling in slowly, filling the place up in time, until only the stars of the movie and the stragglers were not seated. Finally Stallone showed up, and everybody started kissing his ass, applauding his entrance. He got to his row, scooting by people as he did this, and then shook hands with the producers and the writers. He then said something, in his low gravel voice that I strained to hear, and felt foolish for doing so when I heard him. "Yuh-yuh-yyuuhh-yuhhh." He said. I could tell the people he said it to had no idea what he said, they stared at him blankly but try and force smiles, nodding like little birds as he smiles back and eventually sits down. The audience got to talking again, I got to staring up at the theater above me, rotting away right before my very eyes. I felt sympathetic for the building, I felt like I was rotting away too. Ozzy finally showed up, I didn't see him at first, I heard him. At first I thought it was a lost child, or perhaps some mentally handicapped guy with too much fluid in his brain, but then I heard the accent. I turned around and there he was, Ozzy Osborne, being led down to his seat next to Stallone by two ushers. He babbled the whole way "shaaashaaaant cunntttt cunntttyathatawaayy." It was a language only a mind fried by years of drug abuse could understand. The sight was too much for me, it became apparent that this would perhaps be the worst movie ever created, and I was one the first three hundred unlucky few who were about to see it. After awhile the chatter died down, the director came up and introduced the movie, the lights dimmed, and it was about to start.

HERE WE GO

People began leaving twenty minutes in, particularly after a three minute monologue by Ozzy Osborne, something about music and the devil and worship, I don't know I couldn't really make out most of it. It thoroughly confused everyone in the audience except for Osborne and Stallone, who laughed and nodded their heads. They were the only ones who could understand it all, and in turn they were the only ones enjoying themselves. They were enjoying it all so much they wouldn't even have noticed if the entire theater emptied out behind them, and it nearly did.

Five minutes later I made my way toward the doors of my freedom, taking one last look at that horrible train wreck, blown up big on and screen and right in your face. I turned and looked so long I didn't notice the usher in front of me, and ran right into him. At first he looked angry, but then he looked at me curiously and asked if "I wanted to get high?" I said "Yes" and before I knew it I was in the projection booth of the theater, with a couple of ushers and this girl who said she was the manager. The film was playing away, clicking with each frame, and the room smelled of sweat and a strange odor, as if it were coming off the film itself. The tallest usher pulled out a balloon and smiled a toothy grin. It was jenkem, fermented poo gas, and from the looks of the people around me, they were experienced users. The first usher took his huff, and immediately hit the floor, his legs nothing but cold spaghetti. The second usher took his hit, and bounced up against the wall and hung there, his head spinning. It was then my turn. The balloon, half deflated, was handed to me by the manager chick, the only one functioning enough to do so. Although the guys next to me didn't look like they were in too good a shape, I knew it was better than the alternative, which was to turn around, leave the room, and go out and watch the rest of that God Forsaken movie. (That's right, I'm saying I'd rather huff poo gas than watch Sylvester Stallone sing, anything, in any style, for any duration of time. Certainly not 90 minutes of it, with an accompaniment by a walking geriatric who mumbles because his brain has been turned into tapioca pudding from far too many years of far too many pills. A garbage disposal running with a beat in the background would be just as good as the two of them singing.) So I took a deep breath, brought the bag to my face, and my eyes took to watering from the stench. After a natural reaction, which always had my head turning to one side at the very smell of it, I brought it to my face one last time a took a good huff.

Instantly I passed out.

What happened next was sort of like a dream, but was much realer than that, it was almost like real life - except the only thing I could taste and smell was shit. Jenkem chalks up your mouth and works it way up your nasal cavity, you feel as if your innards have been all switched around, like your stomach was replaced with the large intestine, and your esophagus with the small intestine. Your so sick you don't know what to do, but then you start to hallucinate. Instantly I'm young again, with my brother, with Wyatt and Whitney, and we're playing by a creek with their mother, that woman with the big square thick glasses, and the ice blue eyes that never wavered and never teared. The same ice blue eyes Wyatt had. I forget her name, but then again kids are seldom very big on remembering the names of grown-ups, or even fraternizing with them for that matter. We're all young, and we're all daring one another to go in the water. Its so cold you can barely stand it, and its clear and you can see through it to the bottom where moss and algae have made their homes on jagged rocks, and you can see all the little black insects swimming in the cold frigid water. It hardly looks inviting, you start to think the damn little things are the only thing that can survive in it. Its all too much so we just end up hanging from a knotted branch that hung out over the stream, and we just look down into the water, our feet skimming its surface. Its so cold it feels like ice. We all wonder who's gonna be brave enough to jump on in, but no one ever did, all day. It all seems so real I'm six again, and the world is still fresh and exciting, and every little thing can be explored or dug up or turned over, and there's nothing to hold me back but curfew, but night fall. Until that time comes, the world is mine, and its all fresh and easy and brand new.

It was a nice feeling to have again.

And then I look down and I'm not sitting on the trunk anymore, I'm sitting on a rotten stinking tour bus with an overflowing septic tank. I'm by thirty-four other kids, and I'm the only one who's not talking. I just want to go home. They all talk or listen to music, or joke with the counselors. Like the wood shop teacher, I can see him as plain as day, like I was there reliving the whole thing over again. I can see his bald spot shining when the sun catches it, just as it did 9 years ago. His gut buldges underneath his red shirt and sticks out over his khaki's. I recognize the outfit, it's the required uniform of a People to People Delegate, the kind I had to wear when I was fourteen. He's complaining too, just like he did all those years ago. And there's Cindy Vadraskas, as stiff as ever, her gray curly hair hugging her head and dropping down over her beady eyes made even beadier by her glasses. She too is in a red shirt, but her's looks stiff from too much starch. I can smell that damned coconut hand balm she uses, she's putting it on now. She's the type of woman who finds everything dirty, and always lotions her hands, because the world is so filthy where ever she goes. She's always preserving them, like no one will notice that ugly old face with crows feet and those thighs with varicose veins that peek out when she wears shorts, all cause she's got two little young hands like perfect soft lilies. I was there for the first time again, and I still had that same feeling I had when I first experienced it. I was there on an opportunity of a life time, in the middle of Europe, on a tour bus carving through fields of sunflowers, seas of em', crashing and breaking with the wind, and all I wanted to be is home. Home was safe.

What's so wrong with wanting to be safe?

Then came fog and many distant memories. Like hopping from bed to bed in a hotel room and waking up dad, dad who was tired from the drive, tired from work, tired from everything. Cliff diving, the fall and the fear that comes up in your belly, and just as it swells up too much and has got to escape in a scream, you hit the water, splash, and its salty and cold and it comes up and slaps you in the face. You come to the surface with salt burning your eyes, salt in your nose, salt in your mouth. Fog and long card rides, broken promises, let downs. Fog and memories, some forgotten some merely stored away, for another time. They were all too much, and just as I thought I would go on dreaming forever, my eyelids peeled back and I was awake, awake but still caught up in a horrible jenkem fog. A glance at the clock had told me that I had been out for eight whole hours. My breath still reeked, my eyes were sensitive to light, and my stomach was doing the tango. I thought that at any moment I might vomit. I left the room, making sure not to wake the others from their feces induced comas, and went down into the lobby, to find it empty and totally trashed. Some parade had gone through, or maybe a squad of Bradley Tankers - the damage here was made by some great and terrible force. There was no way a movie audience could wreak such havoc, create such damage could they?

Could a horrible movie be to blame for the current state of the lobby? Could angry viewers rip down lighting fixtures and tear up tile? And what about the cracks, did I miss an earthquake? Coming out of a jenkem hallucination leaves your brain all fuzzy, your eyes have trouble focusing on things, everything's hazy around the edges, you can't tell up from down. Real becomes unreal, it becomes really hard to tell the difference. Was the movie that bad? Or was I still hallucinating? A trip into the theater, ground zero, and the damage proved to be even more horrific. Bodies lay in the aisles, some with throats slit, others with slit wrists, as if the movie was so bad suicide seemed like a good idea. Chairs were uplifted, pulled from the roots and left turned over on their sides, the movie screen was black but still had light to it, the projector had never been turned off. Amongst all the bodies there was no sign of Ozzy Osbourne or Sylvester Stallone. It appeared as if they were the only survivors, bodies everywhere, destruction that would take years to fix, and yet no police, no reporters, nobody. It was hard to tell if it was real, there was very little I could do other than hope. A jenkem user can wake up with a bloody knife and all he has to do is hope its a hallucination, that he isn't a murder, that it isn't true. Unfortunately for me, this was all true. I walked out into the street, where the chaos spilled out of the theater in the form of dead bodies and destruction, cars were burning, benches broken. All this destruction, all this death, and then men responsible seem to have gotten off scott-free.

They're probably out there somewhere, in the night, talking in their mumbled language, amusing one another with the intellectual equal they have been looking for all their lives. They've made it this far, which means they've been around long enough to leave a substantial shit stain behind to remember them by, that is if they ever die. They may just go on living, like ageless retards who are too stupid to know they should be dead. Even if Stallone does die one day, he will always be remembered for his movies, namely the Rocky and Rambo franchises. It is for this reason iR names Sylvester Stallone - ageless retard.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Stallone has a long running competition with Arnold Schwartzenegger. When they were younger it was who was the better action star, now they both compete to see who's man tits are saggier.

Stallone is one of Hollywood's symbols of machismo, of Hollywood action heroism, which means hes another John Wayne, no brains and all hate. I would give him this blog to read, but I don't think he would be able to get through it. (Congratulations, you're smarter than Stallone, you've made it this far.)

Stallone has been married 3 times, and has 5 kids. His second marriage lasted a whopping 2 years.

Stallone abuses human growth hormone, as it is said to help stop the aging process (some one please tell him its not working.) In 2007 he was caught by Australia with 48 vials of synthetic human growth hormones.

Any of his movies... I suggest Over the Top.