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" title="who slept with her"> who slept with her

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    death proof | Kolumne v3.0

    death proof

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    "So a new Tarantino flick, huh?"

    "Yeah."

    "Well?"

    "Well…"

    "Well... motherfucker?"

    "That´s right, motherfucker."

    "It was kind of boring."

    "Really. Unless by ´kind of´ you mean OH MY GOD WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE CUT THEIR FUCKING THROATS."

    "Yeah, motherfucker. That´s what I fucking meant."

    "You better, nigger."

    "I´m white, cocksucker."

    "What do you mean by that, pussybootlicker?"

    "It means I have a skin condition called hezawhiteboy, dickwadster."

    "Right, cocksucker. Let´s get back to the flick."

    "Right, if Tarantino wants me to watch his next flick he better get some
    stuff out of his system before making it."

    "Like what, pussy?"

    "Like he has a serious foot fetish that kind of scares me. And by ´kind of´ I mean OH MY GOD WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE CUT THEIR FUCKING THROATS."

    "Explain yourself, woman!"

    "I mean, that if I ever meet Quentin, I´ll be scared to take my shoes off. He might dry-hump me or something right there on the spot. He looks like a fucking dry-humper. He fucking does, faggot."

    "Don´t you be calling me no faggot, I´m all about the motherfucking pussy."

    "A pussy you are, but there´s no pussy around you, unless it´s magical invisible pussy."

    "I have a scalpel in my boot. You know that, right. You know I can cut your fucking throat if you don´t shut up about my sexual persuasion, right?"

    "What you getting so upset about, bro?"

    "There might be women listening to this, and I don´t want no vaginas thinking that my total devotion isn´t directed straightly at them, and their intestines. And an emphasis on STRAIGHTly."

    "You like bitches. Got it."

    "You better get it, unless you wanna find out what the inside of your throat looks like."

    "Back to the movie, peeps."

    "Those bitches really like to fucking talk, huh?"

    "Tell me about it. They just wouldn´t shut up. I had a feeling Sideshow Mike or whatever his fucking name was, was working for the American Wildlife Service, and his mission was to make those hoes shut the fuck up, so they would stop upsetting the native birds in Texas and Tennessee."

    "Rosario Dawson also has no fucking boobs."

    "I know! What the fuck was that all about."

    "Maybe they didn´t invent push-up bras back in the days of the Grindhouse?"

    "They did invent Nokia cell phones though."

    "Fucking Finland."

    "Aye."

    "Speaking of Grindhouse, Quentin, there´s a reason we live in the 21st century. It´s so we don´t have to watch scratch marks on the film tape."

    "Fake scratch marks."

    "Yeah, Quentin, how about you go digital?"

    "It´s like he´s the Fuckin Amish of Modern Motion Picture Cinema."

    "Is he chopping trees to power up his equipment and falls in love with Harrison Ford?"

    "I fucking hate Amish."

    "I killed one once."

    "Really?"

    "Yeah. Too bad it wasn´t Tarantino."

    "Maybe next time."

    "Maybe. And as far as dialogue goes, Quentin needs a fucking editor. And I don´t mean a movie editor, who cuts superfluous shit from the picture and lets it rot on the floor of the cutting room alongside the 5th hour of 2001 Space Odyssey. I mean a script editor. Someone who can come to Quentin and say: ´Fucks sake, shut the fuck up Quentin, and get to the fucking point. I plan on having children one day, and I can´t give them a proper upbringing if I have to read your fucking script about Kurt Russell killing bitches in Fuckwater, Alabama for the next 14 years!´ That kind of editor."

    "He´s so fucking in love with his dialogue that he´s completely oblivious to the fact that the rest of the world doesn´t really give a shit what Jungle Bitch has to say about movie producers and their sexual
    habits."
    "That´s deep, nigger."

    "Again with the nigger. Mesa white, motherfucker."

    "Who you calling motherfucker, motherfucker?"

    "Motherfucker motherfucker, motherfucker."

    "Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker, motherfucker."

    "You like cocks."

    "Scalpel."

    "Bring your fucking scalpel, so I can shove it up your black ass."

    "Respect, nigger."

    < sigh >

    "How about the music?"

    "Same old tired shit. It´s like Tarantino only listens to the same surf rock station. Listens to it on his manure-propelled radio system."

    "Yeah, Quentin. I don´t know if you heard, but there have been cases of music recorded after 1977."

    "Maybe, in his backwater Hollywood villa, they still think that some kind of nuclear disaster killed all music."

    "So who do you think is on top during sex? Quentin or his Sonny Chiba life-size cut-out?"

    "Good one!"

    "So you know why Zoë Bell is a stunt(wo)man?"

    "Why, motherfucker?"

    "Cause she can´t fucking act."

    "So in the end, is she from Australia or New Zealand?"

    "Oh, who gives a fuck, they both still have the Queen of England on their money. Living under the boot-- sorry, fucking heel of the Empire."

    "Colonial scum."

    "Yeah, and that bitch with the bad perm that drove her around? From now on everytime I watch Cold Case, and she appears on the screen, I´ll smash it with my hockey stick. Just to prove a point to Tarantino. He´ll feel it somewhere in the Hollywood Hills while masturbating to Pam Grier porn videos. ´A TV just died, Pam,´ he´ll say with a tear in his eye."

    "And that Latino cunt? God, makes me wanna watch the 3rd season of :24: just to see her getting shot by stray bullets from Mexican terrorists."

    "This movie could´ve used some Mexican terrorists."

    "Mute Mexican terrorists."

    "Yeah, nobody cares what those greasy bastards think about ninja flicks."

    "Then again, the movie would last 3 fucking hours."

    "I know, cocksucker. Can you believe this thing lasted 2 hours. Two cars chases, and couple nagging dykes bitching about billboards. TWO HOURS of my life I could´ve spent shoving my dick into electrical outlets or alligator jaws."

    "Fuck you, Quentin."

    "Fuck you up your hairy ass. Next time you and your monkey friends have an inside joke to tell, keep it limited to your buddies. Not limited theatre distribution."

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