Tag Archives: will smith

30 No-Nos After 30

Hitting 30 years of age used to be a grave marking, considering that the average lifespan of humans back in the BJ (Before Jesus) days was roughly that amount. Of course, their life force was being sucked dry by running from dinosaurs and dealing with nagging cavewomen — AMIRITE, GUYS? — so hitting 30 was like cheating Death at a game of Halo or something just as ridiculous.

Now that the average American’s life expectancy is 78 years — I count Wikipedia as a wholly relevant information source, EDUCATION SYSTEM — and rising/falling, considering 30 to be over the hill is now as silly and pointless as E! network’s Golden Globes coverage. It is considered an American tragedy if someone dies before 30 – like 9/11 or the fatal Charlie Sheen hotel party you know is coming.

That said, while your youth-chasing aunt might overuse quips like “40 is the new 30!” or “[blank] is the new [blank],” you are still a grown-ass adult. There is a strange gap of time that some people in their 20s and 30s inhabit – not a girl, not yet a woman. While some occupy their time with continual love-cave exploration, kickball games and growing molestaches (HIPSTERS), others are pushing for careers and dealing with offspring from their failed 16 and Pregnant bids.

WHAT THE FUCK.

Essentially, I’m saying people disguised as adults do some stupid things. Therefore, Genial Black Man is here with a list of things not to do once you hit your 30th year on this here Earth. Some of these apply to guys, others apply to women, and a select few apply to a third, genderless minority. And if you see your friend’s mom wearing UGGs, you have permission to tap her head with a printout of said list.

30 No-Nos After 30

  • Do not wear a backwards baseball cap unless you are imitating ’70s era Carlton Fisk or have earned license to wear it ironically. Even fratboys tilt their hats to the side nowadays.
  • No more eating cake frosting out of the can. You’re 30; it’s time to start making it from scratch.
  • Stop hanging truck nuts from your car. No one believes that you actually have balls.
  • Leave the pink cellphones and other rose-hued items to your daughters. Look at Jessica Simpson: she’s a sad sight.

    Nick Lachey: "Do you SEE this shit?"

  • Leave the overly baggy t-shirts and pants to the kids. Hell, don’t even encourage THEM to do it.
  • Wine coolers are no longer okay to drink. Graduate to bourbon like an adult.
  • Stop having pictures of you and your pets in dating profile pictures. People think you’re dressing them as babies and cradling them while you cry yourself to sleep.
  • Socks and sandals are not okay at any age. I don’t know why. They just aren’t.
  • Showing your washboard stomach in pictures is not awesome. You look like you have nothing interesting to say.
  • Posing for pictures with pouty lips is not hot. You’re stretching your frown lines.

I do believe that this woman is mentally ill.

  • Pie and cake are equally delicious. Arguing about it is pointless: THEY’RE BOTH SUGAR AND BREAD.
  • It is now even sillier to identify yourself as a geek or a nerd. Let the high school jocks reassert their taste-maker role.
  • Playing kids’ schoolyard games makes you look immature and possibly crazy. Unless you’re being paid millions of dollars. Then have it.
  • Being a Twilight mom/dad(?) is creepy and should be illegal.
  • Despite the marketing, Tommy Bahama clothing is not okay at any age. Wear some Banana Republic clothing to the Jimmy Buffet concert.
  • Put away the coonskin cap, crown hat or other winter-type hat that you’re wearing ironically. You’re wearing the late aughties trucker hat.
  • Stop reading US Weekly magazine. Those celebrities are paying millions for surgery to not be like you.
  • Insane Clown Posse concerts are now a sadder place to be. There are Craigslist postings to seek out similar misogynistic, racist and homoerotic thrills.

Time to wipe off the face paint and find a Tea Party gathering.

  • Your body can no longer handle eating an entire cake in one sitting. That’s what refrigerators and saran wrap are for.
  • Unless you on a professional sports team roster or attending a game, wearing a team jersey in public is sad. It’s like wearing a velvet clown portrait on your body.
  • Using acronyms in everyday situations is immature and lazy. If not getting a parking spot makes you say FML, exchange yourself with someone from a third-world country. Don’t say LOL. LAUGH LIKE YOU MEAN IT.
  • If you remember when you wore jelly shoes and leggings when they first came out, don’t wear UGGs. You can’t get your youth back, MILF wannabes. (BTW, jelly shoes: the Crocs of the ’80s — except less comfy. Ladies?)
  • Having a mattress on the floor, though comfortable, screams house-squatter. Elevate your sleep game and buy a bed frame.
  • Wearing bling is best left to rappers, athletes and others without fiscal responsibility. Kanye can pay to remove his diamond teeth; it might bankrupt you.
  • Ed Hardy-branded anything should never be worn or bought. Failure to comply will warrant a “DOUCHEBAG” stamp on your forehead in permanent ink.
  • Giving your car and/or home a themed makeover screams arrested development. Music producer Jermaine Dupri can deck out whatever he wants in Tweety Bird gear because we KNOW he’s a manchild.

There is nothing hip (or hop) about this car.

  • Spiking your hair is like wearing a penis costume: we all know you’re a dick.
  • Getting blackout drunk on the regular is no longer cute or experimenting. It’s a cry for intervention and/or rehab.
  • Wearing skateboarding/snowboarding/extreme game clothing or branded gear is as useful as couch potatoes wearing jerseys. 
  • Crocs? AW HELL NAW.

While this list may read like the local call-in newspaper section from a resident geezer, they represent immature behaviors that children enjoy. Take responsibility for your age, clutch your man- or lady-parts and sack up. As comedian Hannibal Buress says, “You step your LIFE up.”

It was Michael Bay Bad Movie Night

(This is an old post, and a goodie.)

Armageddon. Pearl Harbor. Bad Boys. These movies have six things in common: bombastic action, ham-fisted acting, dumb explosions, ADD-like editing, unnecessary romance and Michael Bay. The cinematic auteur/Helen Keller of the movie industry, Michael Bay has managed to make a career out of catering to the lowest of the lowest common denominator–making popcorn flicks that are jam-packed with empty calories and brain cancer. (He centered Pearl Harbor, a movie about the BOMBING of Pearl Harbor, around a love triangle!) If any director is proof of making a deal with the Devil, it’s this dude.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

So it was no surprise that his work needed to be celebrated–any be celebrate, I mean mock openly and cruelly. Picking two bad Michael Bay movies was like picking which Wayans Bros. movie was not an NAACP violation. We ended up settling on The Island, a futuristic, high-concept/low-executed action flick, and Bad Boys II, a present-based, low-concept/lower-executed exercise in self-hatred. We didn’t even make it an hour into Bad Boys II, which says a lot about the quality and time length of this shit. (2+ hours for each movie? 2.5 hours for Bad Boys II?!?!?)

"Plan Your Escape... from the theater."

"Plan Your Escape... from the theater."

We started with The Island, which for most directors would be the black mark on their resume; for Michael Bay, it will be his magnum opus. The setting is a futuristic world where rich humans clone themselves for spare organs and parts. (If I spolied it for you, be thankful that you don’t have to see it.) The “insurance policy” clones live in an underground Arizona facility (yay?), cut off from the human world. The “Island” appears to be the nirvana the innocent, simple-minded clones are waiting for, with one person “picked” to leave the facility for an exotic giveaway; in actuality, it was their call-up to serve their function as organ/baby/limb generators. Lincoln Six Echo (Ewan McGregor) learns the secret of The Island and the trappings of the underground area, freeing Jordan Two Delta (Scarlett Johansson) and discovering the truth–complete with dumb explosions. ham-fisted acting and bombastic action sequences in the process.

"We're in WHAT movie?!"

"We're in WHAT movie?!"

So what is bad about this, you ask? Good question, as it sounds pretty interesting. In reality, it’s far from it. While the movie sounds like the Blade Runner/Logan’s Run action-thriller that would have been nice, it was just another dumb Michael Bay movie. Bombastic action: check; That ham-fisted acting: check (particularly the overacting of Michael Clarke Duncan and the blank-slate blahness of Johansson); Dumb explosions: brain-rotting check; ADD-like editing: check (following this movie was like playing Pong on crack); Unnecessary romance: check (formulating a romance in a futuristic action-thriller is like the chocolate chips in a pancake-coated sausage-on-a-stick: superfluous, silly and stupid).

Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson's romance in The Island.

Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson's romance in The Island.

And the two biggest crimes were that this shit went on for more than 2 hours, and that Johansson was refused the opportunity to do a nude scene. (In an industry like Hollywood that expects actresses to go in the buff to either lend a movie artistic credibility or save a B/C-grade pile of dreck, Michael Bay insisted Scarlett not take the naked walk–once again showing he has no idea what to do with a movie.) By the time the credits rolled, I felt robbed of a lot of things, and while it sounds like I’m being pervy by going on about Scarlett’s lack of skin, it would have made a horrible movie merely mediocre.

Speaking of horrible, we then watched Bad Boys II.

Look at the flames! Flames mean AWESOME!

Look at the flames! Flames mean AWESOME!

Oh lord, this movie was bad. Because the world banged down Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer’s door for a sequel to the Shakespearean drama known as Bad Boys, we were shoveled this crap followup. Set several years after the first action-comedy buddy romp, we are thrust into a Miami ecstasy drug ring, and only our two joke-cracking wiseguy cop heroes (Will Smith as Mike Lowrey, Martin Lawrence as Marcus Burnett) can save the day!

"We're in WHAT movie?!"

"We're in WHAT movie?!"

Because we only made it through one hour of the 147-minute runtime (that’s 2.5 hours for you math-challenged folks), there’s not much to comment on. However, there was more than enough to hate. (And we missed the destructive car chase in Cuba, plowing through poor shanty-like homes like playing cards, as well as numerous N-word bombs.) Bombastic action: check (over-the-top violence and destruction); That hamfisted acting: CHECK (lots of yelling and mugging by both Lawrence and Smith; histronic cookie-cutter police chief Joe Pantoliano); Dumb explosions: check and check; ADD-like editing: check (I swear that I went cross-eyed at one point); Unnecessary romance: check. (Lowrey carries on a secret romance with Syd, played by Gabrielle Union, who is the sister of Burnett and is also an undercover cop. WHAT?!?)

Had we finished this epic crassness of a movie, there would be more to complain about. Perhaps that was for the best. Since we didn’t, here’s another AWESOME poster:

The flames! The explosions! The moistness!

The flames! The explosions! The moistness!

This was the first time we were not able to fully complete a Bad Movie Night. I think that warrants a future Michael Bay Bad Movie Night to polish off the dirty deeds of the first. It should be fun… and awful.

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