Maybe I don't wanna. You evah consider dat?

That you would equate employability with possession of a valid, worthwhile and accurate perception of reality is proof of your dismally mediocre rationale. You want to believe that you know what's what, but you're suspecting that you're clueless, oblivious, and silly. Your suspicions are worth investigating.

As a frequent visitor with VIP privileges, I find by and large that it's the more well lit sectors of Hell where the most horrific, soul searing atrocities are conducted. It would seem that the bright light of day—or whatever is the equivalent of daylight down there in the wretched depths of that foul, fetid pit of…

A 900 pound Alien imposter had been crouching uninvited upon my chest, imposing its irksome mediocrity upon my very being with it's deficient, inferior, hackneyed non-sequels. Those pitifully cheesy, crappy coattail-riders are such despicably misguided and stupid responses to the majestic ingenuity that is Alien.…

It was the Whiskey talking… Prolly blurred vision. Your spelling is impeccable. I've never actually found anything to be peccable, so take that for whatever it's worth. Cheers!

Kick out the jams, Muthahfuckah!!

Ha! Your indignant critique is the epitome of that which has been expressed by all the self satisfied, self deluding, semi clever and pitifully blind children whom Ridley Scott hoped to confuse and infuriate with his supremely inspired and spectacularly enlightened cosmic morality tale. You are the one who has…

Alien screwed up nothing for anybody! The "sequels," however, increasingly and totally screwed up anything good and right and worthwhile about Alien, managing only to disastrously disrespect every major and minor cinematic achievement that their noble, valiant progenitor can so rightfully claim. The "sequels" are at…

VOLUME!

A hack with a tedious compulsion to make things way more outrageous and provocative than they need to be, or than he's capable of pulling off. So, yeah, a hack.

Ok, I'll just ask a serial killer microbiologist. You know any?

If you dismember my corpse you'll need a full size first class suitcase, for my dismembered member. Ha! More like a dainty petite change purse, preferably made from a sow's ear.

She's only 43, you vicious lying bastard!

Yeah, but the thing is, it's no longer as easy as it once was to obtain a suitcase—or perhaps a fashionable and sturdy steamer trunk—large enough to transport a mammoth corpse.

A friend who can no longer ask for her or himself, I presume.

You, uh, you seem to really know what you're talking about. Ha!

Your spelling skills are a bit lacking. Attend to your deficiency, fer Krise Sakes!

Occam's Razor does not insist that the simplest explanation is the correct one, nor probably the correct one. Occam's Razor, rather, is a working method for approaching a problem whereby it's advisable and wise to begin with the simplest explanation, and using that as your starting point work out from there till you…

If we're his friends I hate to see his enemies.

This is a conversation in which I normally engage with enormous, inappropriately aggressive enthusiasm because I get to have this conversation so rarely—there are a shocking limited number of people who have actually seen INLAND EMPIRE, and even among more hard core Lynch fans there's surprisingly few who've watched…