pdf scan (204 pages / 150MB)
Realism only comes to
the screen when the film jams in the projector and the image begins to bubble. An
instinctual fear of the dark manifests when the projection light fails ...
heightened by the little, furry things with long tails that scamper beneath the
seats. The electrical nature of sex becomes apparent as the hair on your neck
bristles when that pervert to your left makes knee contact. In these moments of
truth, cinema reveals her face of realism. But, she is a twofaced creature, the
other countenance being a rainbow palette of dyed coiffures, pancake make-up
and pancake bloated guts crammed into costumes designed by cock -eyed midgets.
Superstars who beat their children with wire coat hangers and then peddle soft
drinks potent enough to rot their dentures. Aging women taking endless enemas
so as not to wind up in horror films. Virile he-men doomed to an excruciating regimen
of exercises to keep their sodomized posteriors picture-perfect. EST trained
actresses showing the world what it is like to be liberated and free of
cellulite. Alcoholic celebrities who barf up their past in book form so that
all can marvel at the hideous mess that has been cleaned up by a Christian re-birth.
Harpies with herpes who rip apart, in print, plump fornicators whose every
performance they slander with typeset Ju-Ju curses. Innocent children who sing
and dance down the yellow brick road to drug addiction and toxic box office
poisoning. This is the other face of cinema …