Internet commenters are very bad. But every once in a while, Uproxx commenters are very good. Once a week, we recognize the latter.
I tried to get you guys to nominate the good comments in the comments section of the Comments of the Week post like we used to, and only a couple people listened. But that’s okay because most of you have terrible taste anyway (accidental self own?). Anyway, I’m not sorry to have brought back Comments of the Week.
As usual, comments are best when you’re piggy backing on each other. Like this mini-thread about The Zookeeper’s Wife (WWII movie set in a Nazi zoo, which I like to call “We Bombed A Zoo”) from last week’s This Week In Posters:
OhMyBalls: That tag line for the Zoo Keeper’s Wife makes me think it is a Schindler’s List for jungle cats. If that is the case then sign me right the f*ck up.
Group Captain Mandrake: I assume it’s based on the non-fiction book (same name anyway) about the Warsaw zookeepers who pulled a Shindler’s list by saving Jews and making defective zoo animals for the Reich. Or something. It’s been awhile since I read it.
Verbal Kunt: More like Ape-ocalypse Now, amirite?
Torgo: “I love the smell of ape palms in the morning” – Fay Wray.
I think those second two comments were about the Kong poster, but close enough. “Defective zoo animals for the Reich.” That one got me.
From my review of Allied:
Schnitzel Bob: Since Pitt is playing a Canadian, I assume the movie mostly takes place in Gordon’s Café Canadien. Or more likely a Tim Horton’s.
Ragnarok: Marianne: Play it once, Sam. For old times’ sake.
Sam: [lying] I don’t know what you mean, Miss Marianne.
Marianne: Play it, Sam. Play the theme to “Hockey Night in Canada.”
Sam: [lying] Oh, I can’t remember it, Miss Marianne. And I think TSN owns the rights to it.
Marianne: I’ll hum it for you. Da-Da-Da Da Daaaaaaa… Da-Da-Da Da Da-Daaaaaaa…
[Sam begins playing]
Verbal Kunt: “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, guy.”
Is this funnier if you actually know the theme to Hockey Night in Canada? I just assume it sounds like Terrence and Phillip doing the NBA theme on a kazoo punctuating the melody with farts.
This next one isn’t a good comment or anything, but it is an interesting example of something:
Schnitzel bob: I was going to make fun of what the kid who played Thurman Murman looks like now, but considering he started out looking like a rejected Willie Wonka character, this is probably the best case scenario.
Stringer Bell: Yeah except the actor has more money than you and has probably f*cked hotter chicks than you as well.
Is… is that you, actor who played Thurman Murman? Honestly, what do you call it when someone gets oddly defensive on behalf of random celebrities? This is in my top five of baffling internet phenomenons.
And finally, we close out with a Schnitzel Bob Frotcast fan fiction. I’m not sure I even fully understand this one, but he certainly put a lot of effort into it and I think we should all take time to recognize that.
Schnitzel Bob: The drive to Oakland was a drudgerous affair at the best of times, but on this occasion Vince felt a deep sense of foreboding as he made his way across the bay.
His destination was clear. He’d planned this day for months, thought about it incessantly. It was a less than ideal option, he knew that. But what was an ordinary man to do? Even with very good health insurance, he’d exhausted the limits of what modern butthole medicine could do. It was time for something drastic.
Many would have questioned his choice. Some would have wondered whether it was really necessary for a man to eat hot wings and spicy chorizo every single day. What could he say? He could no more explain his compunctions than you can yours.
He did as he was instructed and stopped in front of 35 Industry Way late in the Stygian night of a new moon. It was the residence of a man known as the Oakland Raider. With difficulty, he shuffled his way past the gate and into the yard.
A door opened in the side of a cavernous warehouse. A dark shape was silhouetted by the light emanating from inside. A few knew of him by reputation. Still fewer knew him as Bret. He beckoned. Vince followed.
He awoke several hours later. Groggily, he looked around and spotted the man. “D… ded uh worq?”
The man turned around, a humorless grin on his face. “Oh, it worked… in a way.” He approached, and the deep etches of ennui in his visage became clear. “You have a butthole unmatched in this world or the next. It will long outlast you.”
Vince, still only half conscious, felt relief wash over him.
“But.” The man continued. “The problem, my dear Vince, wasn’t with your butthole. The problem is with your stomach. And that I will not replace.”
“Wha dus tha meen?
He leaned in close and even in his state, Vince could smell the man’s vile aroma, a cocktail of loathing and stale sourdough. “It means you’ll never be able to eat hot peppers again!”
He reeled back and laughed, shrieking psychotically, knocking a tray to the floor before doubling over into a coughing fit.
Vince cried out. “NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”
He started awake, this time in his kitchen. He’d grown tired preparing a dish and had rested his head on a bed of serano, jalapeno, and habanero peppers before falling asleep. Taking stock of his surroundings, he gently poked his fingers at the seat of his pants. No metal, no whirring. It had all been a dream.
As always, nominate for next week in the comments section below.