Comments of the Week: Original Thoughts Edition

Well it’s been two weeks since we last handed out the ass-pats and back-slaps for the best FilmDrunk comments.The good news is that our favorite existential buffoon, Shia LeBeouf,  is still running around stealing wisdom from everyone from new media philosophers to fortune cookies. Who knows, with all the Google wizardry he displays, I think there is a decidedly non-zero chance that our hero could be reading this very post. Therefore, this week’s Comment of the Week will be awarded to the comment most likely to someday wind up on Shia’s Twitter tagged #originalthought.

If you missed the latest updates in the saga, Shia took to the L.A. skies with a less than sincere apology, defended his actions by proclaiming “authorship is censorship,” then got schooled in a Twitter pissing match with Patton Oswalt and Seth Rogen, before finally deciding to take his highlighters and carbon paper and retire from public life. Yours truly noted that even the means of Shia’s apology was ripped off:

Stinky Pete

He plagiarized [the sky-writing stunt] from Kurt Braunohler.

I only included that one because Kurt Braunohler himself mentioned it on @midnight this week (the thievery, not the comment). If you had to pick a single comment to sum up this whole story perfectly, it had to be this one from Al:

Exactly whose notion of “genius” is a romantic, isolated figure? That’s my notion of sexy – a romantic, isolated figure in a lovely field on a farm, shot like Terence Malick.

I think those are probably safe from Shia’s copy binge, though the thought of his stealing a stolen quote is so delicious I may skip breakfast this morning. Luckily for us, Shia wasn’t the only person doing really stupid things this week. For example, there was the Italian film distributor who thought it was a great idea to feature two minor white characters in the posters for 12 Years a Slave. That was bound to confuse non-Italian speakers like commenter warmbutter:

The sequel to Legends of the Fall is dark.

Burnsy found a whole nest of stupid people who loved the ridiculous twist ending of 2013 Worst Picture contender Safe Haven. Don’t click that link unless you want the ending spoiled for you, something Shop 101 found out too late:

Shop 101

Holy f*ck, Burnsy, *SPOILERS* in bold. I was saving this one for when the diabeetus takes my legs.


Why? Did your leg write a letter to your future prosthetic?

I don’t think Shia has quite figured out how to plagiarize both sides of a conversation (…yet), so that exchange couldn’t win. Now Tupac Shakur has a rich catalog from which one could “sample,” and a few Broadway producers beat Shia to the punch by developing a musical inspired by Tupac’s music. Currently titled “Holler If Ya Hear Me,” Stallonewolf had a much better idea:

Should’ve just called it “Gats.”

In Hollywood legal news, while Chinese actress Zhang Ziyi might not be a prostitute, but the New York Times will tell you plenty of others are. The most bizarre part of their story recounts how women accused of hooking are assigned to labor camps… to make ornamental paper flowers? Even The Jersey Devil has a hard time believing that one:

The female origami is a myth.

That sounds vaguely LeBeoufish (LeBeoufesque? LeBeouflike?), but we can do better. We learned this week that Shia isn’t the only diminutive Hollywood filmmaker to spectacularly disconnect from reality when the trailer for John Turturro’s new film Fading Gigolo hit the web. Woody Allen as a pimp? Sofia Vergara and Sharon Stone paying for sex? Do they make guy wires strong enough to suspend that much disbelief? Some of us sure didn’t think so:

 Stinky Pete

Sofia Vergara is the sort of woman who never has to pay for anything, anywhere, They could appoint her chairwoman of BP, and she could personally run an oil tanker into a cove filled with rare waterfowl and preschoolers, and the judge would let her off with a written warning and 20 hours community service entertaining homeless vets with her Charo impression.

The biggest props have to go to Stallonewolf for this epic callback to Allen’s seldom-heard stand-up:

I mentioned before that I was in Europe. It’s not the first time that I was in Europe, I was in Europe many years ago with Rob Schneider. Schneider had just written his first movie, and Gertrude Stein and I saw it, and we said that is was a good movie, but not a great one, and that it needed some work, but it could be a fine film. And we laughed over it. Schneider farted in my mouth.

I could absolutely hear Shia LeBeouf quoting an obscure Woody Allen bit, and in a world where the ex-wives of famous authors don’t hide silver pistols in their vaginas, that would have been your COTW. This world, however, also includes the ex-Mrs. Cormac McCarthy. Upset at losing an argument about aliens, she drew a pistol from her hoo-hah and brandished it at her boyfriend. A set up like that deserves a great punchline, and the FilmDrunkards came up with a few:

Verbal Kunt

“Holsters are for pussies!” – Jennifer McCarthy

When they make the movie based on this story, they better show the glock going in.

Tim Sandrus

Two in the pink, one in the chamber.

This post also gave us our Comment of the Week, because if you can’t close your eyes and hear Shia LeBeouf spouting some Cormac McCarthy, you’re simply not trying:


She brandished a smudged-up Smith & Wesson. His papa’s. He hadn’t seen it in years. Its hiding place revealed, the Man grimaced. That’s no holster, woman, he said, Gimme it. No, she spat. Venusians are in muh brains and you control their galactic comptroller. Get ‘em away! Her hand waggled on the grip. She ain’t trigger-happy yet, thought the Man. But one never knows when the curious matrix of irascibility and unpredictability that is the female mind, under alien control or no, shifts, and a man’s exposed Adam’s apple becomes a target for mandibular derangement by female incisors a sudden. Christ, thought the Man, this here used to be the pantomime of foreplay between us. This mornin it done turned into a threat from which there ain’t no extricatin oneself. Staring down the barrel of that Smith & Wesson, glinting a bit in the light from the thin film of cunny smegma smeared across the barrel, the Man prayed to himself and wished he’d listened to her about unidentified flying objects more, instead of nodding all play-along-like, pretending to care as he stared out the window of nights, caught up in the eerie calm of that ocher plain that you could sense was unfit for living in most in the empty dark. And there he wished he’d drowned this crazy bitch in the gully six miles yander last summer, and there in the doing of it had looked up in the sky and been content there was no life beyond the Heavens, and, now, one less life causing havoc down on earth. Then he’d go home. Knock the mud off his boots. Listen to the tender plop of rainwater on the gutter. But then he’d never’ve found that missing Smith & Wesson. A mystery of that order can haunt a man worse’n a ghost ever could, thought the Man. No use dwellin on it now. He closed his eyes and took his bullet.

FilmDrunk: come for the vagina holster jokes, stay for the spot-on literary parodies.

Congratulations to all of the nominees, and note that we’ll be back to weekly posts now that the holidays are in our reah view. As always, nominate your favorite comments below, and you can find links to this post on the right sidebar or at the bottom of every Daily Links post.