"50 years from now, the goblinoid operated Sotheby’s will be auctioning the Gattaca sequel screenplay based on the death(hunt) penalty criminalisation of the genetic alignment of attractiveness and talent. It will be a Logan’s Running Man-ish musical featuring crossbow replacement amputee Warren Oates clones tracking a silver thonged Owen Pallett while he plays the entire soundtrack on a transparent Stradivarius. When the goblin spit polished hammer falls on the 3 Billion Mountain Dew: Code Red bid for "Gattaca 2: The King Titty" 800 page tome (the purchase made remotely from somewhere beneath the ice in Antarctica) in bursts the balaclava masked henchmen of-" Mr. Lopez….Mr. Lopez….wake up…He won’t wake up, I think he’s dreaming about taking his wife’s liver and immediately divorcing her.
After posting my little memoir about working on Dune, a lot of people asked to see more of the pre-production art. I have a couple of hundred images, far more than I could post here, so I decided on a selection that showed how the look of the movie evolved from conception to completion.
"Mister Rogers went onstage to accept the award — and there, in front of all the soap opera stars and talk show sinceratrons, in front of all the jutting man-tanned jaws and jutting saltwater bosoms, he made his small bow and said into the microphone, "All of us have special ones who have loved us into being. Would you just take, along with me, ten seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are. Ten seconds of silence."
And then he lifted his wrist, looked at the audience, looked at his watch, and said, “I’ll watch the time.” There was, at first, a small whoop from the crowd, a giddy, strangled hiccup of laughter, as people realized that he wasn’t kidding, that Mister Rogers was not some convenient eunuch, but rather a man, an authority figure who actually expected them to do what he asked. And so they did. One second, two seconds, three seconds — and now the jaws clenched, and the bosoms heaved, and the mascara ran, and the tears fell upon the beglittered gathering like rain leaking down a crystal chandelier. And Mister Rogers finally looked up from his watch and said softly “May God be with you,” to all his vanquished children” - as described by Esquire'sTom Junod
Unlike this endearing canine humanis, I’ve never been much for voyeurism. Although that could be a fairly incorrect assessment of the photo’s true intent. Perhaps the dogman was in the bathroom before the lady. Possibly brushing his teeth or some such anthropomorphic grooming, the description of which mostly relegated to the more furry denizen’s online forums. Ball-washing. He was in the middle of his morning routing doing this when the curvy woman, destined for suds, stepped into the bathroom. Perhaps they made foul coitus in early morning hours, and he rose before her. Whilst cleaning her from him, wondering if there would be a forced breakfast outing involved in getting rid of her. This picture was obviously taken in the era when the dogman would have to cover most of the meal’s price with the contents of his well chewed leather wallet. So in she walks, ass swaying as if last night didn’t get the job done, and proceeds to take a shower. As he considers her bodice and it’s wispy soaking trails of bubble, the world goes a bit askew like pretentious dutch angles in cinema. He believes it might just be his low blood sugar, but then he’s come over with the smell of burnt toast. It’s so satisfying, the odor, to his mostly canine dog. Then he realizes he hasn’t made any toast this particular morning and the world begins to lean even further. When she steps out of the shower, her hair wrapped in a towel beehive and bosom wet, she looks down to the lavatory’s floor and lets lose a wail. Her dogman has had a stroke and died. Yeah, that’s what I see in this picture.