Rambo

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Can you believe that I’ve never seen Rambo? I mean fervently, passionately, yessah-I-feel-the-sperit-ly believe it? Well you should, because it’s true. I have seen Demolition Man many many times however. Here is my review of Rambo.

Rambo’s head is imperfectly formed. It immediately evokes the kind of elaborate gargoyles sculpted out of pork that one sees in the windows of those gothic-themed butcher-shops that seem to be popping up everywhere these days. And like those pork gargoyles, it possesses a dark, bristled beauty. His eyes are soft-boiled eggs wherein sits the yolk of a warrior’s worldview – all too quick to melt into yellow teardrops at the first forkburst of dishonour. Beneath those swift, darting ova droop enormous, capacious eyebags, that act as a receptacle for the hot monsoon rain. Rambo’s snout is pugged out, snubbed up, semi-skyward. If you can see a man’s soul in his nose, Rambo has the soul of a child’s crude drawing of a deformed goblin. But those soulful nostrils have snuckered more of life than your nose or my nose could ever dream of. His mouth is a disgrace. It’s a shabby shout-spout from whence issue the groans of a full metal fuckmaster. Rambo’s head is imperfectly formed, but show me the man who would not decapitate himself for half a chance to inhabit that xy-est of all human crusts.

Rambo’s gun fumps and fuddles up and down the rice paddies. The natives call it ‘Chil-wa’: ‘the spitting death’. He slumps it over a ledge-like abdominal muscle and gropes the trigger like an unwanted lover. Cunk-cunk, it declaims. Cunkity-cunk. Hey you, indigenous personage, choose your lifestyle and choose it quick. The spitting death is coming and he’s awful partisan. There are commies in this forest and there are cougars too. I like cougars. I ain’t so keen on commies. The whole damn forest gotta burn regardless. This is the last will and testament of Rambo’s gun.

Rambo’s mind sometimes wonders what it would be like to be a flying squirrel. To feel the altitudinous jungle breezes stroking his wingy under-flaps as he cascades from the canopy to the sub-canopy. To partake of bulbous, gynaecological berries freely, letting the juice trickle down his whiskers and drip into the gasping chasm that opens beneath his flight. To laugh and hold paws with his flying squirrel friends: Binky, Scissorwhiskers and Honkgrurst. Then his mind remembers whose mind it is, calls itself a stinking squirrel pussy and shoots itself in the id.

I really didn’t know what to make of this film. It was pretty confusing.

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6 Responses to “Rambo”

  1. Banjo Fett Says:

    Cunkity-Cunk was my favourite gameshow. I liked the music.

    Cunkity-Cunk, Cunkity-Cunk,
    Cunkity-Cunk…
    CUNKITY-CUNK!

  2. johnlebaptiste Says:

    I’m pretty sure Cunkity-Cunk wasn’t a gameshow.

    I think you are thinking of Blunketty-Blunk, in which contestants have to guess which of a group of infants are the love-children of David Blunkett. The winner gets a much-coveted Blunk from the big man himself.

  3. Banjo Fett Says:

    Oh yeah, that’s the one. He used to get his Blunketty-Blunk chequebook and pen out after each round to pay off the paternity suits.

    BLUNKETTY-BLUNK!

  4. johnlebaptiste Says:

    That’s it. KER-BLUNK.

  5. Banjo Fett Says:

    KER-BLUNK? Wasn’t that the children’s game that involved sticking kebab skewers into a model of Mr Blunkett until some balls fall out?

  6. Nobody Says:

    I had that game, but unfortunately it was a hand-me-down.

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