Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Just saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I love fine-ass Johnny, especially now that he looks way androgynous. But some things about the movie were so fucking wrong, HAH!

(Spoilers ahead.) So, basically the story revolves around this little kid, Charlie, whom we are supposed to perceive as the little underdog 'cause he's poor and shit. His grandfather used to work in Willy Wonka's world-renowned chocolate factory (WW even made a chocolate castle for Prince Pondicherry and his wife, who are in brown-face makeup even though they are Indian!), but the factory had to shut down after employees misappropriated WW's trade secrets.

Well now the factory is somehow back up, and WW has a contest to allow five kids, each accompanied by a guardian, to enter his factory, based on who gets the "gold tickets" that are placed in the candy bars at random. We see some class analysis during this contest; obviously, privileged little shits have a better chance at winning, since they can afford to buy more candy. One of the fathers of a spoiled lil' bitch makes the women in his sweatshop unwrap a bunch of candy bars for several days, until a ticket is found.

Anyway, so eventually, once we get into the factory, we find out how WW has managed to keep the factory running efficiently and without the risk of someone stealing his trade secret: Oompa Loompas. Apparently, in the original story, they were supposed to be African pygmies, but I guess American consciousness has somehow risen to a level where we'd perceive that visual as somewhat fucked up.

Instead, the Oompa Loompa has tribal/indigenous clothing, habitat, and customs in the introductory scene, resembling the stereotype we have of Native Americans. He is played by an Indian (as in red dot) actor, though, 'cause who can tell one Indian from another, anyway? This might be a matter of excitement for people of color in Hollywood, that there is opportunity for so many brown people to act as Oompa Loompas, but instead, the same actor plays ALL of them, because as I said, who can tell one Indian from another, anyway? ;P Oh, and the actor, Deep Roy, is a real-life dwarf. But that's not enough; they made him even more microscopic, by camera trick. That's probably done just in case you hand any doubts that these Oompa Loompas are... well, basically sub-human. The People of the Ethical Treatment of Animals should have no complaint with this movie, because WW does not test on animals; he tests on Oompa Loompas!! They're also his home-grown entertainers, busting out in song and dance every time a fat kid or a girl loses the contest!

So how did WW come across these strange beings? He happened to travel to some strange forest in search of new flavors for his chocolate, since raw materials of the third world are, of course, in the public domain. Unfortunately, he found that these primitive Oompa Loompas only had caterpillars to eat, though what they really craved were cocoa beans. WW conveniently offered them all the cocoa beans they wanted if they came to be his factory labor, and they graciously accepted, since we know that places where dark-skinned people live have such a dearth of flavorful spices, teas, herbs, and plants, including cacao. Well, gee, how Pareto efficient!

So in the end we find out WW invited these kids and had this contest to find an heir to his factory. 'Cause there's no way these little brown sub-humans who have been tending it all these years could even be considered for that role.

You better not bomb, I'm telling you why...

A few minutes after Rach and I plunked down on BART and I deliriously locked my vision into the floor of the decrepit train, Rach disrupted my trance with the disgusted proclamation: "Is that Santa Claus guy staring at us?!"

"Who?" I questioned deliriously.

"Him," Rach responded, pointing her knuckles in the direction of this old dude with a long, white beard, sitting at an angle diagonal to us but out of earshot.

I burst out laughing upon the sight of the eerie duplicate of the North Pole resident.

"Why has he been staring at us for the last twenty minutes? There's an Indian guy sitting right next to him; he might as well turn his face 90 degrees and stare him down."

And then, lo and behold, he DID! He literally turned his face sharply to the right and stared at the Desi guy, peering intently as the Desi guy pulled out his calculator and started multiplying things.

And then Saint Nick shifted his gaze to this Desi woman that was at about 45 degrees from him. He kept this isosceles triangular rotation going on during his whole train ride: us, 90 degree calculator Desi, 45 degree Desi woman.

Thanks to his watchful eye, no bombs went off on that train!

Playing Soccer

I love taking breaks. At times, I purposely undertake arduous tasks just for the satisfaction of some ensuing momentary relief. It's like taking a dump after a gruelling 18-course meal served by a persistent Aunty.

At other times, I navigate toward activities where there is a required break, but little work required on my part, because I cannot be trusted to do the work properly.

I used to play soccer. For a pretty long time, actually. I was woefully unskilled, though supposedly that didn't matter; the coach would always enthusiastically declare that it wasn't about winning, but about teamwork and having fun. Then while rotating players, the coach would always happen to sit me out for two quarters. That's half the fucking game.

But I didn't mind. I was performing a necessary function in this operation, and I, too, deserved a break. Obviously, "teamwork and having fun," for the dexterous majority, involved certain curtailments of activity for the bumbling minority. If the coach didn't sit me out and I fearfully stood there on the corner of the field, dodging and trembling at any person or ball that came within any reasonable proximity of my being, "the team" would be pissed. I had been placed on the team to fulfill a numerical requirement, but I was the weakest link. It would be unfair to require that others endure my infirmity for the miniscule possibility of my improvement, when, in my absence, so much collaborative triumph was abound. My role was to patiently hover on a dirt mound until I could go claim my Twinkies and Capri Sun at half time. And this, I could handle.

Drink, Link, and Drive

Why isn't there some over-the-counter pill you can pop to eradicate intoxication? I'm not talking about dampening the craving or curing a hangover. I know that herbal and greasy shit, respectively, tend to aid in those matters. But like, for the average reckless bar-hopping youth that then needs to drive home, can't the fucking scientists do something?

I suspect the most enthusiastic lobbyists for such an endeavor would come from the alcohol industry. While I am no fan of said industry, I would gladly receive its backing, just so I could feel safer amidst irresponsible young drivers that have been indoctrinated by its savvy asshole marketing.

The pill should be called "Link" because it puts your senses back together. The motto should be, "Drink, Link, and Drive!"

There, the name has been trademarked. Now someome, come up with an open source process to supply it some meaning.