My Movie Trailer (Read by James Earl Jones)
In a world where nothing is what it seems and lies become truth by simple repetition, one man stands alone against the gathering forces of evil—or a reasonable facsimile—forged in the darkest recesses of his country’s halls—and lavatories—of power.
In a time when men were men and women were fairly disgusted by the whole thing, a son, a father, and husband, (plus a breath mint and a candy mint all rolled into one) seeks his destiny and still tries to get home before dinner.
To a tribe of people for whom the world is a magical place (though no one’s really that impressed by the bit with the rabbit and the hat) a savior makes his way from ancient forests of memory to the secret stash of Jimmy the Flea who owes him a couple of buds, dude.
On a planet formed by the accretion of cosmic dust, an entity composed nearly entirely of hydrogen and oxygen, begins as a single-celled organism only to end up wearing trifocals and Sears Sansabelt pants.
From a land far, far, way, and long, long ago, (although there is a shortcut if you get off the interstate), an intrepid traveler searches the highways and byways of a forgotten landscape hoping against hope to discover just what “intrepid” means.
In a dream made real by wonder and hope, along with 7 Stolichnaya kamikazes, one man, one woman, and a small collection battery-powered love aids are all that stand between soulcrushing despair and feeling pretty good for being hungover.
Born of a union among night-dwellers and purse-snatchers, raised by feral cats and hockey players, taught the black arts by contemporary minimalists, the spawn of a full professor and a research librarian, his name became feared by all, especially those who stuttered.
Never before has such a vast collection of world-renowned stars lent their talents to an enterprise so banal, so pointless, so hyped beyond all measure.
Don’t miss it.
In a time when men were men and women were fairly disgusted by the whole thing, a son, a father, and husband, (plus a breath mint and a candy mint all rolled into one) seeks his destiny and still tries to get home before dinner.
To a tribe of people for whom the world is a magical place (though no one’s really that impressed by the bit with the rabbit and the hat) a savior makes his way from ancient forests of memory to the secret stash of Jimmy the Flea who owes him a couple of buds, dude.
On a planet formed by the accretion of cosmic dust, an entity composed nearly entirely of hydrogen and oxygen, begins as a single-celled organism only to end up wearing trifocals and Sears Sansabelt pants.
From a land far, far, way, and long, long ago, (although there is a shortcut if you get off the interstate), an intrepid traveler searches the highways and byways of a forgotten landscape hoping against hope to discover just what “intrepid” means.
In a dream made real by wonder and hope, along with 7 Stolichnaya kamikazes, one man, one woman, and a small collection battery-powered love aids are all that stand between soulcrushing despair and feeling pretty good for being hungover.
Born of a union among night-dwellers and purse-snatchers, raised by feral cats and hockey players, taught the black arts by contemporary minimalists, the spawn of a full professor and a research librarian, his name became feared by all, especially those who stuttered.
Never before has such a vast collection of world-renowned stars lent their talents to an enterprise so banal, so pointless, so hyped beyond all measure.
Don’t miss it.
posted by Professor Dave at 3:35 PM
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