Sword and Sorcery Tuesdays QUADRUPLE BILL: Ator!!!1

Theme: Eagle - Gamma Ray

Italy didn't just rip off the Road Warrior formula to hilarious effect; it also got in on the Conan craze, making it the most 80s of countries. Ator is pronounced ah-tor in the first three movies to his name, then ay-tor in the fourth, made by the same director as the first two, giving you some idea how stringently continuity was upheld. They're basically all different movies on the same general theme, and as is oft the case with movie series, it's all downhill from the first, yet this is no bad thing, because the lulz increase in rough proportion to the quality control evasion.

Ator the Fighting Eagle

Miles O'Keeffe stars as Ator, who rocks the most magnificent Dokken-tier 80s hair game in the whole subgenre:

He'd fit right in.

Ator wants to bang his sister, but it's OK: he immediately learns she's not really his sister. I assumed he'd only learn this (we already knew it) near the end of the movie, engendering some lulzy and/or creepy tension along the way, but his step-parents just tell him there and then, perhaps because the writer realised at once that this was an extremely sketchy characterisation for his hero but was determined not to redraft so much as one word he had written, for which I blame him not one bit, because as homework assignments go, "write a Conan ripoff" should be taken as a free pass to have fun. I know I did.

Ator has a pet bear cub, which is adorable.

Sadly for Ator, said step-sister Sunya (Ritza Brown) is kidnapped by the evil Dakar, high priest of the Spider-god, which we will later learn is a very big spider. Dakar spends most of his time watching tarantulas play about on his wrists and head, while his guards wait with Herculean patience, if indeed patience was something for which Hercules was known, which I suppose it was, given that his twelve labours involved a lot of repetition, making this lazy cliché on my part actually make sense.

Girls who "like spiders" when u drop a spider on them.

CAN Ator win back his beloved with the help of Amazon Roon (Sabrina Siani), after she defeats her rivals in combat for the prize of O'Keefe's ridiculously Chad physique in marriage, because male fantasies never really change? Yes, and all that impedes them are the obligatory cultist goons, army of the dead, and some blind smiths, who are about as menacing of opponents as most blind people are 2bqhwu.

Prove me wrong, blindbois. I'll step to any of you bitchass hoes.

The Blade Master

The first sequel pads in the tried-and-true manner of Friday the 13th Part 2: by recapping most of the original in its early scenes. The rest of it is hardly higher-effort. We're told in lulzily perfunctory manner that Sunya died offscreen, clearing the way for another brunette with kino legs, Mila (Lisa Foster), who implores Ator's aid after her father, flagrantly retconned as Ator's mentor, is captured by a lame bad guy whom he will spend the movie trolling so passive-aggressively that you will burst out laughing when the villain loses patience and starts slapping him around toward the end.

Same glorious energy.

Blade Master is a total rehash of the original, but in this one Ator has an Azn sidekick named Thong (snicker) and, in the only memorable scene, produces a hang glider out of nowhere and starts dropping bombs on his enemies.

"????" - Rotten Potatoes.

Iron Warrior

By far the highest-effort of the Ator flicks is also the least sequitur, ditching everything except O'Keeffe and affecting an MTV arthouse style, with some great scenery and lulzy 80s aesthetics, such as our heroine's new wave makeup.

Before the oceans drank Atlantis, dying one eyebrow pink was in.

The plot is that Glinda, the Good Witch of the West, paroles Phaedra, the Wicked Witch of the Worst, whereupon Phaedra immediately takes over the local kingdom, massacres an entire town, and generally wreaks havoc, making Glinda not all that good, really, all things considered.

"We have to let this unrepentant psychopath loose on the populace at large. It's her human rights."
"Don't innocent people have a human right not to be victimised by psychopaths?"
"LOL no, crie moar CHUD"
- Actual dialogue (real life).

Fortunately Ator, minus the kino hair but plus downright Road Warrior tier shoulder pads, is on hand to save the day. There are some downright imaginatively dumb fight scenes, including one where he and Skeletor play catch with the same two spears, followed by another in which bad guys on horseback pick up the princess and attempt to run her into a spear placed in the ground, thus:

The editing is (I think) intentionally disorienting so you're never quite sure what the fuck is going on, and characters keep turning out to be the witch in disguise, so in the end when Ator saves the princess he'd thought was dead, you're expecting it to turn out to be the witch again, but it just isn't and we cut back to Phaedra interred once more in the Phantom Zone, which is (I think) unintentionally actually a clever little double-fake-out and an example of how Subverting Expectations can be a fun way for genre entertainment to remain fresh, provided your filmmakers are actually as smart as they think they are, instead of drooling fuckwits.

Quest for the Mighty Sword

Series originator Joe D'Amato returned for part 4, which, in the tradition of all the other ones, has nothing to do with any of the other ones. Apparently he considers 3 unofficial, which means he somehow considers the flagrantly contradictory 1, 2 and 4 official, which makes one of us*. In this one Aytor is no longer Miles O'Keeffe (merely yards) and is a king for about five minutes until getting shrekt by Thorn, a god who has some beef with Aytor over his titular sword, leaving his son, Aytor Jr., to avenge him and/or rescue hotty Dejanira (Margaret Lenzey) who is in the movie; IDK, it feels like there's a bunch of backstory they never bothered to explain, but I'm not overwhelmed by curiosity.

It's illegal to upload clips from this turd in >240p.

The late Aytor's queen/Jr.'s mom, Sunn (I guess it didn't work out with Mila from 2, or Joe D'Amato forgot all about her), takes the sword to be reforged by a goblin named Grindr, who rapes her with the aid of a love potion and proceeds to raise her kid until he's the most elderly-looking 18-y/o in movies (quite a feat), whereupon he's entitled to reclaim his birthright, but the goblin pranks him a few times with fake swords first, just to be an even bigger asshole. Happily Aytor eventually kills him, but unhappily there's still like two-thirds of the movie left to slog through. Line readings are stilted, budgets are stretched, and eyes are rolled. I'd recommend the first one for your lonely TV-dinner distraction, the fourth if you're still in that MST3K phase where you think being smarter than B-joint writers makes you smart, but most of all I'd recommend a walk.

*Due to sharing a costume with the movie Troll 2, Quest was released in Germany as Troll 3, which I consider to be its proper series lineage.

Cool Thing: Tsaatan Reindeer Riders!

Theme: Run Run Rudolph - Chuck Berry

POV: you just said hApPy HoLiDaYs in a Merry Christmas neighbourhood.

The Tsaatan are a nomadic Tuvan people found in best country, Mongolia. While most people ride horses or the bus, the Tsaatan ride reindeers, which is more cool. So central are their lil Christmassy bros to their lifestyle that Tsaatan means "the people with reindeer", and they move their ortzes (tents) around the oft-frozen taiga with their herds, milking them, trading their antlers (doan't worry; they grow back), and sometimes ritually merking one to drink its blood to give them warrior strength, which seems somewhat pointless because there are only 200 of them in the entire world, they live in the harshest wilderness imaginable, and absolutely noone cares to trek out there in -40ºC temperatures to pick a fight with them, unless perhaps cable hasbara tells boomers they're building a reindeer-powered nuke.

The Tsaatan speak Dukhan and practice an ancient shamanic religion requiring them to pick a sacred reindeer from among the herd whose antlers are never amputated. To ensure this reindeer brings good fortune, they place a bowl of milk on its back and walk it around an ortz three times. If the bowl falls off to land facing upright toward the sky, it's an auspicious choice of reindeer. If this just keeps never happening, IDK what they do; you don't have a lot of options in this tough environment, and milk doesn't grow on trees. Incidentally, milk is extremely important throughout Mongolia, with airag, the fermented milk of mares, being the country's signature beverage. All Mongolians are lactose intolerant, but they just drink it constantly anyway, because they're also Chads. Don't let your whiny kid tell you xir lactose intolerance means xe can't possibly deign to stomach a normal diet; if it's good enough for men of the Altan Urag, it's good enough for xim.

In summary: the Tsaatan are cool, Mongolia is cool, I'm a Mongolboo, there hasn't been a good movie released this decade, listen to Hanggai and the Hu, practice khoomei and sygyt, and I'll see you next time with another Cool Thing or B-movie writeup or something; IDK.

The Littlest Dipygus

Theme: Sad Toys Factory - Mimmo D'Ippolito

The following was recovered from the diary of the renowned and oft-resented hoax-finder Marshall Hemming-Webster, on his decision not to publicise his findings in the case of Mary Ellen Lydecker of the Wexley Brothers' Itinerant Sideshow. We publish it here pursuant to his wishes that his private matters be made public not more nor less than one hundred years from the date of his passing.

Mary Ellen Lydecker was so beloved not only of her public but among the carneys too that when she fell pregnant not even the most niggardly of money-men could be heard to utter a word of complaint for the considerable cost incurred in her upkeep during the months she was unable to perform; nor did a single member of the company question the child's paternity, though not a word was shared among them nor any contract made toward that end. Indeed, so sweet was her demeanour that no question of her character was raised, and when she passed, among the little that she left behind was found a wedding band unadorned save for an inscription bearing her name and that of the man to whom she had been wed in secret, and whose testimony I later extracted to my satisfaction that both had believed her barren prior to the union, for it was thought that one so small could scarcely deliver a child under the best of circumstances; circumstances fate, in the event, did not see fit to bestow.

For on the night of Mary Ellen's labour, a great storm blew in from the east, unaccounted for, and in the hastened disassembly of the great tent a pole came loose and struck Delmer Cosgrove, the sawbones who attended to her care the length of her pregnancy, and killed him stone dead upon the instant. It was scarcely more than an hour hence that Mary Ellen's water broke, and she was hied in great haste to the medic's trailer, whereupon it fell to the grief-stricken nurses to do all they could for the delivery. And it was said by those who recalled their attendance on that mad night that the young dwarf's howls accompanying each contraction were as sweet and as melodious as ever was her singing in the carnival, and harmonised with the howling of the gale without; though in my years I have heard many a tale embellished with romantic flourishes of similar fancy.

In the event, however, it can scarcely be credited that aught but a cacophany of wailing must have greeted the reality of that ill-starred labour; for it transpired to the great sorrow of the sad world that the baby was misoriented and could not be righted, such that, however coaxed and prodded with forceps and sundry implements, the little legs descended first amid a stream of blood and water, and then nothing, for the little girl asphyxiated even then as one hanged, her umbilical cord wrapped noose-like around her little throat, so that the lifeless little legs descended between her mother's own in the manner of a dipygus; a striking connexion with which the sideshow folk were well acquainted. And it was perhaps a mercy to her that that poor unhappy mother passed from this world in that moment, whether overcome by grief or horror or from loss of blood or other medical complaints unknown; for no autopsy was permitted, for reasons that became clear.

For the company with one unspoken thought amid the flurry of emotions saw the grim sight and, acquainted with what costs had been sunk into their beloved star, knew only, as a beaver knows to build its dam, that the show must go on despite all the horror of the world, and they began to whisper "don't they look like...?" and "how long might they be thus preserved?". And so, under the blanket of black night and darker calculations and contrivances, the little bodies were spirited hence to still another sideshow, where they gathered quite another audience in their macabre suspension. Thus it is I can confirm, though I should scarcely dream of telling, that the much-discussed exhibit purporting to show the body of the world's first confirmed comorbidity of dipygus and dwarfism was not altogether a conventional hoax, but came of a far bleaker and more melancholic provenance.

Greatest Album of All Time of the Week: Static Age!

Theme: The Monster Mash - Bobby "Boris" Pickett

The hairstyle came later.

The Misfits might have been through any number of lineup, sound and image changes over time, but I don't care about any of that; they got it right the first time. Static Age was cut in 1978 in a handful of takes but never released until 1997 (though most of the songs were re-recorded for the inferior Legacy of Brutality), in a decision as inexplicable as any in the lengthy history of popular music, since it was first recorded at the height of the punk rock phenomenon and contained most of the band's most sledgehammer of bangers, including catchy jingle "Last Caress" and the last word in B-movie tributes "Return of the Fly".

This historic blunder could have easily served to strangle the nascent institution in its crib, since debut mark 2 Walk Among Us, while containing some fine songs, sounds like it was recorded in about eight different locations on variously archaic machinery, which is endearingly chaotic but distracting even to my utterly inexpert ear. It's a wonder the band caught on at all, for which we can only thank Danzig's underrated songcraft and some canny image-crafting over time. Misfits tees are fourth only to Nirvana, Iron Maiden and the Ramones in the is-it-a-band-or-a-brand sweepstakes, but, like the Ramones and Maiden, it doesn't matter because cool is cool (Nirvana is not cool; MTV lied to you).

The OG Misfits have aged better than any of their punk contemporaries because their music is principally about B horror flicks and being edgy bois, as opposed to laundering your teachers' ideology through a veneer of rebellion, which became the purview of the genre retrospectively and then increasingly intentionally as the years wore on. Even admirably ill-meaning edgelords of yore like Fear and the Anti Nowhere League would drop the odd cringe boomerism like "fuck religion" or "we don't care if you're black or white", which can only give any self-respecting thoughtcriminal of today what wahmen call "the ick". No such reflexive cucking can be found in laugh-out-loud wifebeatercore like "Attitude". Sure, "Come Back" drags on too long and sounds like Danzig trying to ape Jim Morrison, but if that's the worst thing I can say about a record, it's a keeper.

Greatest Movie of All Time of the Week: Legend of the Surami Fortress!

Theme: Stein um Stein - Rammstein

Let me tell you a tale...

Everyone knows Sergei Paradjanov for his seminal 60s classic Sayat Nova (aka The Colour of Pomegranates), an ostensible biopic of Armenia's most celebrated poet. It was obvious to everyone that Paradjanov had the most singular talent and vision among filmmakists since Ozu, but the Soviet regime did not approve of his flagrant flouting of socialist realism formula and penchant for stirring up nationalist sentiment in the benighted SSRs, so he spent four years in a prison camp on what nearly everyone agrees were bogus charges of rayping a Party functionary before being released, only to reprise his controversy-courting schtick in the mid-80s because, in his words, "lmfao yolo nigga idgaf".

Paradjanov surveying all the territories occupied by his balls (1985, colourised).

While this absolute madladdery merits celebration in itself, the fact that Legend of the Surami Fortress adapts so effortlessly Paradjanov's patented succession of album-cover-worthy compositions and bizarre vignettes to a more traditionally narrative folkloric template makes one wonder why no indie hipster fast-tracked by H*llywood has tried to make a franchise flick this way, until one remembers that indie hipsters don't actually watch arthouse films or have integrity, audacity or character. Yes, Legend, set in a bizarrely stylised medieval Georgia, has a plot, albeit one the great filmmakists often seem indifferent to conveying with any great clarity or urgency, in favour of complete non-sequiturs like this:

????

The plot concerns a fortress which repeatedly collapses, to the great consternation of the Czar, and the intertwining fates of various slaves, merchants, warriors and clairvoyants that culminate in a solution: a young man must sacrifice his life to be entombed within the foundation of the building, ensuring its stability for the ages. This might seem like an odd idea, but similar legends are found as far off as Japan, so many cultures shared it. I myself have immured several victims in my foetid crawlspace, but less to consecrate the building and more because they wouldn't stop wearing her face.

Neighbours know better than to bother me or ask too many questions. You heard nothing; you smelled nothing.

But Legend's impact lies in its striking visual style over the vicissitudes of plot anyway. Closeups are few, lending the objectivity of detachment that makes the stagey imagery stand out in its naked strangeness. Compare Kurosawa's Dreams and Terayama's Pastoral: To Die in the Country for examples of similar atmospheric derealisation. Off-symmetrical framing is another motif, introducing subtle dissonance into an ordered world:

I'm showing these compositions to Stanley Kubrick to watch his eye twitch later this evening, but you're not invited.

Greatest Album of All Time of the Week DOUBLE FEATURE: Whirlpool and Blood Music!

This year marks the 35th anniversary of Chapterhouse's debut album, Whirlpool, for which auspicious occasion they have reformed and are touring around playing the whole thing for their eminently discerning fans. Sadly I won't be attending any of these shows because I only found out about it yesterday, which made me so mad I spent forty minutes pacing angrily around my room stimming and babbling to myself until I got dizzy and crawled under my weighted blanket for a sob. Fortunately I can still celebrate the occasion with a blȭǥ post, which also gets me out of having to think of a thing to post about.

Shoegaze was brilliant, so naturally the music press hated it and murdered it in favour of utter shit like grunge and brit pop. Ostensibly, the reason they despised it was because it was "too middle class", which is a stupid reason to cut short the best genre of its era. Powdered wig aristocrats have classical, football hooligans have oi!, so why shouldn't the poor saps who pay taxes have a genre for themselves? If jamming Chapterhouse is "middle class", then mow my lawn and run my 2.5 kids off to school, because Chapterhouse is great and Tony Blaircore sucks.

But since so many shoegaze pioneers were too polite and easily embarrassed to resist getting bullied out of soaking longer in their daydream genre (Lush and Ride went brit pop, Slowdive and The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa took a turn for sparse electronic and Catherine Wheel went space rock, prog, hard rock then prog again), it was only sensible and prudent for their fellow purveyors of swirly headcandy to have an escape plan of their own, which was already somewhat telegraphed on Whirlpool: with their followup Blood Music, they went largely dance-rock.

To this very day I can't decide which album I like more. On the side of Whirlpool we have an obvious ringer in the form of "Pearl", which might be the entire scene's most pristine pop gem. "Satin Safe" is as ominously droney as "Breather" is sunny and light, while "Come Heaven" provides the gritty/swirly template for gothgazers Love Spirals Downwards. Blood Music boasts fewer standouts but is more consistent and coherent as a whole. Blood Music loses points for more intelligible vocals but matches Whirlpool's array of pedals with a sonic sprawl all of its own. Whirlpool is the captivating rush of spring and summer, Blood Music the flourescent melancholy of autumn, but, like Yin and Yang, each contains a drop of the other.

Demos released on their recent Chronology comp suggest a third album might have further integrated the two styles, but we'll never know because after Blood Music they stopped altogether, quitting while they were creatively, if not commercially, lightyears ahead of the curve (no offence to Curve). It's like if I'd dropped The Real Slim Stayvun and The Stayvun by Edgar Allen Poe and then retired into obscurity, content to let the GOATs speak for themselves.

Greatest Movie of All Time of the Week: Dude, Where's My Car?

Theme: Ashtray - Screeching Weasel

C'est magnifique.

It's obvious the makers of 2000's perfect time capsule Dude, Where's My Car? set out to make the dumbest movie of all time not just of the week, but of all time. The fact that almost any given movie released after, say, 2012 surpasses it in crayon chewage should scarcely be allowed to detract from their then-seemingly-epochal achievement. Ashton Kutcher (TV's Punk'd!) and Seann William Scott (The Dukes of Hazzard) star as Jesse and Chester (or vice versa), two stoner layabouts one solitary IQ point above the maximum threshold for mandatory helmet allocation or admittance to a Zack Snyder flick.

"MmmDUHHHRrr" - these dudes.

Waking one day after a blurry and forgotten night of excitement, intrigue and illicit substances, our MENSA benchwarmers find that, let's say, Jesse's car is missing, prompting him to utter the titular phrase, to which, let's say, Chester replies "where's your car, dude?" This exchange goes on for a few minutes, and it ain't the last.

Pictures you can hear, exhibit A.

The rest of the movie ostensibly concerns itself with our intrepid breakfast eaters trying to unravel the mystery of what wild and whacky goings-on transpired during their unremembered night of rampage, but nothing like a coherent timeline with causal linkages between beats ever materialises, no doubt to your immeasurable consternation. At some point, we and they learn, they got tattoos, stumbled across a sci-fi quest for the mysterious continuum transfunctioner, and let's say Jesse got it on with Kristy Swanson's character, cleverly named Kristy Boner, which the especially observant viewer may notice is a colloquial term for an hardon.

She doesn't wear this all movie, which I feel was an oversight.

This leads to a series of run-ins with our Swan Swan's bf, who is an hilariously one-dimensional bully with the memorable catchphrase "stoner bashin' time", whom Kristy cannot stand but is dating for some reason. The reason is that she can leave him at the end of the movie. This sort of writing by reverse-engineering is so characteristic of Hollywood slop that it works wonderfully as parody, and so the writers cannot help but undermine their aspiration to be dumb, because the whole film works that way: as a satire of actual movie conventions it's more over the target than Scream, Airplane! or the like. The continuum transfunctioner is a parody of the Hitchcockian MacGuffin, Kristy Boner is a parody of on-the-nose symbolic naming in pretentious scripts, her OTT bad jock boyfriend a parody of The Karate Kid, and Jesse and Chester themselves a parody of stoner buddy duos like Bill and Ted, Jay and Silent Bob, and Merry and Pippin.

I can't believe that hack Jackson omitted their SoCal accents and van with Frank Frazetta's Silver Warrior painted on the side. Respect the source material, fatass!

But we need not even bother to appreciate Dude for this inadvertent (or, perhaps, semi-advertent) hidden depth; for Dude reveals the secret wisdom that dumb humour will always make us actually laugh more than smart humour. Time and again in life I've cracked myself up to the point of tears looking at random people and imagining just going up to them and going "MnnNHUURRRRr".

The retard was me all along.

Greatest Movie of All Time of the Week: The Beast!

Theme: We Never Learn - Clan of Xymox

Like Jawbreaker, The Beast is what I'd call a problematic fave if I spoke YouTuber With Pending Sexual Misconduct Allegations. This is because it cannot escape the Boomer Truth framework in which (or, very occasionally, against which) virtually all movies have been made. Fortunately, as you know, I have no hangups about liking what I like despite the soy-soaked motivations of its authors, because everything good is derived from a Platonic form of truth crudely translated by uncomprehending mortal vessels blind to its higher significance and resonances in the grand celestial design.

Goddammit, Pat, you are NOT steering this into another hidden depth. I MEAN it, I will turn this tank RIGHT ROUND.

So it is that an H*llywood m*vie doing everything it can to frame its critique of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan within safe regime-compliant terms wound up forecasting eerily the Yoo Ess Ay's own clusterfuck of an adventure in the Graveyard of Empires some decade-and-a-half later. For The Beast has its cast of commie marauders speak English in their own American accents, so if you happened to tune in while channel-hopping on TV (a primitive form of YouTube watched by early homo algorithmus), you might briefly think you'd stumbled on a 2000s movie about then-current events, except that the camera doesn't flail about as though the cameraman were being electrocuted, which for some reason everyone thought looked super cool in the 2000s.

"Uhh don't you think this would look better if we couldn't see what the fuck was going on?" - every director in the 2000s at once.

While most war movies suck and are boring (to say nothing of their propaganda content, which is on a par with newspapers), The Beast is audiovisual candy from its first frame to its last, and makes you wonder why they quit using those dreamy synth scores around the same time everyone traded in their Poison and Cinderella T-shirts for flannel. The detached, crystalline soundscapes and aerial tracking shots along Martianesque canyons render what you're seeing like a daydream, lighter than air, which is no small feat for a movie that opens with a Pashtun village massacre that culminates in a guy getting crushed to death feet-first by the titular tank.

They're doing this to me at work tomorrow.

I could prate on about the obvious parallels between bloated empires ruled by geriatrics overextending with Middle East wars but every day is Groundhog Day and you don't need to hear "I Got You Babe" again from me. The parallel less often drawn is how all libtard empires justify their wars of aggression with appeals to that perennial idol, pRoGrEsS. The Soviet tank crew's Afghan comrade justifies selling out his people on the basis that the Sovs will modernise his backwards homeland, citing laughably outmoded theory of the promised future "dialectical materialism", which is hardly less laughable than the neocon slime bewailing the loss of the Gendyr Stydies Dypartments at the sham universities they propped up during their later occupation of the same unhappy country.

Soviet/neocon outreach to the Afghans (1982-2022, colourised).

Growing up is realising there's not only zero daylight between commies and libtards, but as little between said libtards and neocons. It's all one big slurry of murderous, bottomlessly stupid garbage, every word of it premised on Boomer Truth.

So while this cringe would-be mic-drop seems merely trite if you put any stock in the writers/directors/miscellaneous rapists as the authors of the work, it's actually deeply revealing and thematically on point: the only language the smartest pinko in the crew can grasp onto to gesture vaguely at the truth is LE BAD NATZEES, just as he can appeal only to the women who attempt to stone him with one of three words in their language he's learned the whole time he's been in their country.

Hezbollah bros brief me on the finer points of their Lebanon defence strategy (2026, colourised).

The tank commander tells a story of the battle of Stalingrad in which he was pressed into use as a child soldier using Molotov cocktails to disable German tanks. Sooner than realise his own loathsome regime (who were the majority stakeholder in the invasion of Poland and had already murdered millions in peacetime) was the problem, he and all his fuckup crew can only project onto their archetypal shadow enemy. In Boomer Truth tHe NaZiS are simultaneously unique in their cartoonish evilness, but also every undesirable act by anyone today means they're tHe NaZiS, because tHe NaZiS are the collective boogeyman for generations of arrested children.

This tired maymay is unintentionally brilliant because it perfectly demonstrates the maximum level of introspection permissible under the Boomer Truth Regime: are the objects of the daily Two Minutes' Hate, in fact, The Bad Guys? Why yes, comrade! Back to work, no further questions.

It's worth mentioning that this film was shot in isr**l, an actual supremacist ethnostate with a history of nothing but ethnic cleansing and genocide for lebensraum, whose self-described master race lobby their Epstein colony's congress night and day with definitions of aNtIsEmItIsM that make it a specific thoughtcrime to compare them to the hated natzee shadow archetype, thus making it impossible for the Newspeak speaker even to articulate the thought that anything they do is bad, because badness = natzism and natzism badness.

But since, for now, we have the words to do so, let's reflect once more that murdering the German civilisation in World War Heckin Two did nothing to remove ethnosupremacism from the world, only to clear the way for a far more powerful, dangerous and evil ethnosupremacist clique to seize global control unopposed. For this reason, there can no longer be any defence of the boomoid myth; you must confront it, and repent.

Next week: Dude Where's My Car!!!11