"O Hell No!!!

That's a 6/6 on the Iglesias Scale

It's unclear if the contestant was confused, and thought the contest was "Miss As Big As Alabama"; was looking for the circus sideshow hiring office; or just wandered into the contest by mistake while looking for the buffet.

But American Miss Pageant officials: Your pageant is broken, and your Alabama judges are blind, drunk, high as fuck, or all of the above. Apparently, they didn't learn a lesson from the bankruptcy of Sports Illustrated after they lost their collective minds last year. Possibly because their editorial staff all moved to Alabama to judge pageants.

I don't care if she "has a great personality". If the only place you fit in a crew cab pickup truck is inside the bed, you don't belong in a beauty pageant, you belong on a weight loss fat farm pulling a wagon loaded with hay bales around a field, while the teamster dangles a cupcake in front of you hung from the end of a pole, until you can sit on a folding chair without turning it into a yoga mat.

It's not all bad for her, though. Hormel and Jimmy Dean are said to be in a bidding war to make Miss Land Whale the spokesmodel for their pork products, Dubuque is rumored to be coming out with their new Canned Ham On A Popsicle Stick in her honor, and the American Heart Association is basing next year's "How To Have A Heart Attack By 30" campaign on her.

Unfortunately, she'll have to travel to the national pageant by train, since no passenger aircraft are currently rated for her, while cargo airliners would have to use tie down straps to secure her to a cargo pallet to get anywhere by air. National pageant officials are already calling engineering firms to get an upgrade on the stage construction requirements.

This is what happens when you embrace psychotic delusion as "the new normal", instead of slapping the sh*t out of total morons spewing fluent nonsense.

"WORSE"?!?

h/t Angus

 

Far Worse Than You Could Imagine

 

Jeezus H. Christ! There's rust on the BARREL of the CIWS, FFS!
Right outside the effing skipper's chair! He should be flogged with
electrical cord -plugs on- in front of the crew, daily, until he personally
has scraped off every flake by hand, hisownself! You could power
a CVN for the next two decades just from 20 generations of chiefs
at Arlington Cemetery spinning in their graves at this affront.

The other day, WRSA linked to a recent great read by Cdr Salamander, who's probably known to Pentagon brassholes as Cdr. Cassandra, on just exactly how f**ked up the US Navy has gotten.

Before you head over to RTWT (which you should do), hydrate.

Because you're either going to cry a river, or be vinegar-pissing mad, either of which is going to take a full tank.

TL;DR:

The Navy sucks ass right now, because going back to 2009 (perspicacious readers may note a specific change of administration that correlates with that timespan), all flag- and general-rank promotions were run through a filter of pre-woke communist civilian and military zampolits. Only ass-kissing toadies need apply. The current can't-sail-can't-shoot-can't fly-can't-fight genderfluid diversity Navy is how that plan worked out.

GIGO.

In short, when the only admirals the Squids promote are ass-kissing back-stabbing four-star fuck-ups, the entire Navy takes it in the neck. And. It. HAS.

Add a decade, and you get ships that should rightfully be re-named shits, because they all look like something that came out of a whale's alimentary canal, inside and out, and if the paint looks that bad, imagine what a shitshow the officers and crews are.

You can't even blame this on the blue-haired transgender enlisted, because the fault was letting them up the gangplank in the first place; everything else is just gravity working, plus time, and salt water. Both literal, and metaphorical.

There's a simple cure, in about three parts. Sadly, Cdr Salmander's once-wonderful comments seem to have gone away (we can guess why), so we offer our cure here.

1. Retire/Fire The Admirals

Fish rot from the head down. So does the Navy.

The US Navy currently has 232 admirals for 480 ships. That means that the Navy is about the smallest it's been since the Great Depression, which weakness was precisely what led Japan to cull the numbers of ships even lower one sunny Sunday morning in December. Yet we have nearly one admiral per two ships, and one admiral per 1000 enlisted men. In WWII, with the largest Navy in American history, there was one admiral for every 130 commissioned ships.

We should go back to this ratio immediately.

Congress - not the White House - should select the two best admirals from the pack, and retire the other 230 tomorrow. And CNO Goldbrick should be the first one out the door. The ship runs aground on your watch, and you own that. B'bye, Goldbrick. Followed in quick succession by the other 229 gold-braided @$$holes.

By just next payday, we'd have saved the Navy over $1M, and continue to do so every two weeks, forever.

That saved money should immediately be diverted to ship maintenance, which translates to $5K per ship, per month, forever. That buys a regular supply of Brasso, paint, swabs, and scrapers.

When they start looking like brand new factory-fresh ships again, we can split the budget into thirds, and use the other two thirds for training, and buying warfighting reserve stocks.

2. Retrain The Leadership

The CO, XO, all officers, and all chiefs on the above USS Rustbucket, and every similar-looking sistershit in every class, should immediately be relieved, reduced to E-1, not separated, but rather assigned to the Leading Petty Officers as cleaning detail help on the ships to which they were assigned, until further notice. They will now be working for the non-rates they formerly supervised. All ships to be cleaned by all hands, from keel to antenna mast around the clock until one could eat from the decks and drink from the bilge. Then drilled in basic job duties, including ship handling, seamanship, damage control, and warfighting tasks only 24/7/365, until there's a 480-way tie for the Excellence E.

Any task squeezed out by this should be assigned priority Z, meaning "not to ever be attended to unless peace breaks out, and the Navy is scrapped".

Some will notice this puts a large burden on the sailors already in the fleet. This is true, but there's a remedy.

Every EEOCEIEIO officer, chief, petty officer, and other enlisted person on every shore base will be similarly reduced to E-1 status, and assigned to commissioned ships, until further notice. Ditto for every no-load shore-based job that doesn't actually and directly support the mission of the deployed fleets and ships. The Pentagon's Navy wing, outside of training, repair, and maintenance commands, and actual warfighting staff functions, would become a ghost town.

Boo frickin' hoo.

Every six months, those former leaders to be assessed for suitability for higher rank, including the option to work their way - six months per step - back to their prior grade and rank. That means in three years, a good chief could rejoin the goatlocker. In five to eight, an officer could rejoin the wardroom, and maybe even make it back to the skipper's chair. The promotion boards shall consist of the petty officers of each ship, and their decisions to retain, promote, or separate, shall be final, and shall last until the Navy is back on an even keel, or the last officer or chief either gets back to where he was, or separates from the service.

3. Remotivate The Sailors

The blue-haired gender-confused Navy is gone, as of 0800 the next day. Everybody reverts to being a he or she, based on at-birth body parts, and just to help out the sisterhood, everyone gets the same bootcamp buzzcut.

They get judged on military appearance, including weight control and physical fitness, on a single standard physical test, with zero sex or age norms, and graded accordingly. Everybody gets as many months to meet the new standard as they have years in the Navy. Fatassed screwball is the new fatassed screwball. And Unsat is a one-way fastpass to civvie street.

The only other measurement is military proficiency, in general conduct as a sailor, and in their MOS and grade-specific duties. A shipboard fire doesn't give a damn what your pronouns are, and you can either swing a 4x4 into place and carry a hose pack down three ladders and kick a fire's ass, or you can't. You can either read a radar screen, maintain a missile, or cook 300 meals, or you can't. And if you can't, you can join the yacht club, in the ample spare time you'll have right after Uncle puts you back on the pier where you belong.

And for all those enlisted LPOs in the E-5 and E-6 grades who'll suddenly be running the ships, for real, 24/7/365, for the next 5-8 years, the opportunities for advancement will be spectacular. Some of them are going to become officers, warrant officers, and chiefs in a big hurry, and every ounce of talent discovered should be ruthlessly encouraged and promoted, from every quarter.

Any BMWing (Bitching, Moaning, and Whining) from ashore, active duty or civilian, about anything that happens afterwards, shall be referred to a committee of all the E-4s in the fleets, for speedy and permanent disposition. With internet communications and real-time polling, this is not only do-able, it's imperative. And if your E-4s can't collectively figure something out, they shouldn't be E-4s.

Do that, and you'll have the ass-kicking world-beating US Navy last seen about 1990, if not 1945, by Christmas. 

Re-enlistment will hit 100%, and we'll have the fleet we paid for. And certain countries thinking they're the New Big Dog will be in for a rude awakening.

Do it not, and we may as well de-fund the Navy, and to save further time and effort, just send everyone in the U.S. free copies of Rosetta Stone Mandarin and Cantonese.

Some may think I'm too harsh on the sister service. On the contrary, a functional Navy is vital for US interests. Speaking as a former Marine, for naval gunfire support and amphibious transport, just for openers. Let alone the basic missions of carrier force projection, maintaining freedom of the seas by the surface fleet, and control of the shipping lanes and nuclear deterrence by the Silent Service.

We currently - and going back a decade and more - have a Navy full of Squids and Shitbirds. Starting at the E-ring in the Pentagon. Those at the bottom of the totem pole are that way precisely because of those at the top, whether by active sabotage, foolish encouragement, spineless apathy, or malign neglect and dereliction of duty. Period. Complicity should become a hanging-from-the-yardarm offense.

We need, and deserve, a Navy of sailors. History teaches harsh lessons to nations who fail to provide for their own defense, and we're dangerously close to the shoals of learning that lesson, in a Pearl Harbor sort of way. Hoping it doesn't happen is not a good plan.

Rather more drastic measures, just shy of actual guillotines, are needed. In haste.

If they don't work, I'm open to using actual guillotines, and keelhauling.

Ideally, before someone starts culling our fleets in the traditional geopolitical manner.

Beyond The Pale

I'm informed by the media that shortly after this indecorous outburst, Alzheimer's Nancy walked out of the meeting. Unfortunately not from shame.

I observe FTR that had this sort of horseshit occurred in the Jed Bartlet White House on The Left Wing, President Bartlet's response would have been,

"Madame Speaker, you can sit down and put that finger back in your mouth, or I can have the Secret Service Police throw you out of the building. You're a guest here, not the resident, let alone the President, and if you cannot conduct yourself appropriately, we can conduct a manners lesson that'll see you bouncing off the steps on your way to the sidewalk. Now sit your ass down before I come around the table and throw you out the door myself."

Pity President Trump didn't get the chance to deliver the same message.
With any luck, he'll just turn around and do the same finger pointing at the next five States of the Union. (Or, with any luck, just the next one, before Madame Lunatic becomes the House Minority Leader again, and then retires to join Shrillary at the chardonnay table for three bottles a day.)

Pelosi needs to be put in a home with soft walls. She's clearly lost her fucking tiny mind, and it was never much to begin with.

OMG! I Can't Even...

h/t Moonbattery

(FUCKTARDIA) A law goes into effect March 1 that bans the common cooking method of tossing a live lobster into a big pot of boiling water, quickly killing the tasty crustacean. That practice is being outlawed because the Swiss say it's cruel and lobsters can sense pain.

The same law also gives domestic pets further protections, such as dogs can no longer be punished for barking. 

...cats must have a daily visual contact with other felines, and hamsters or guinea pigs must be kept in pairs.  

And anyone who flushes a pet goldfish down the toilet is breaking the law.

 

The law also stipulates that lobsters must be transported to their final Swiss destination in their natural environment — seawater — rather than on ice. 

The government vows that offenders will not slip through the net. State officials will be responsible for enforcement, and Kunfermann said offenders could land in a lot of hot water, with sentences of up to three years in prison.

No, it's not The Onion. Those silly jackasses are serious about this bullshit.

New Blog Rule: "Swiss" and "fucktard" are henceforth interchangeable terms.
E.g.: "Hey, that's a nice Fucktard Army knife!"
I can but marvel that they can manage to draw breath without assistance.
They have clearly lost all contact with the sentient and rational universe.

"Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad..."

Personally, I'm going to the firing range.

When I'm out of ammo, (but doubtless, long before my blood pressure settles back to the stratosphere) I'm going to Lobsterfest at Red Lobster.

I will there specify that all the lobsters I consume must be thrust into the boiling pot, alive, screaming audibly, writhing, flailing, and in full agonizing extremis, until they are torn asunder, disemboweled, and their plump muscled tails are deposited next to a suitably large container of melted butter. I also want a seat near the tank so all the other lobsters can watch in shocked horror as I consume their fellows.

And I'm taking the empty shells home, to mail to the Swiss Embassy, and I intend to dare them to prosecute me at the Hague for crimes against lobsteranity.
Come and get me, you silly fucktards Swiss pigdogs! I fart in your general direction.

Just a hunch, but proximity to France and Germany clearly rots the brain, the miasma from Italy can't be helping, and this is very likely the same sort of self-apparent theory as the one that posits that cancer is hereditary in white laboratory mice.

It would definitely explain the nonsense out of Eurostan the last 500 years and more.

No prisoners.

Paging Antifa

h/t It Ain't Holy Water (who now owes me a keyboard)

Bonus points to anyone who sh*t-posts this at Daily Kos, Democratic Underground, or Indy Media.
You magnificent bastards.

Fore! THWACK

From commenter Mark D, the following offering:

I'm just gonna drop this here, do with it what you will, I'll make popcorn.

Set beverages down. Fasten seat belts. Embiggen this. Nota bene the orange muzzle plug in evidence.
Bloghost is not responsible for your choking, spewing drinks onto your hardware, or laughing so hard you fall out of your chairs onto your asses if you fail to follow these instructions.

I still don't believe this is a real and legit post.
Judge for yourself.
Much more likely someone trolling at the Sacha Baron Cohen level of game.

But if it is legit, we can probably write off any hope of holding control of the gun section at Toys-R-Us, unless we send a rabid six-year-old girl to kick this fat f***er's ass.
The only thing this sorry shitstain could drop from 500 yards would be a jelly donut, if he leapt on it out of a plane at 1500' AGL.

And I think beyond a reasonable doubt we now have a picture of the actual C.O. of the Phoenix John Brown Redneck Posse.

Apparently, the Revolution will be arriving on a short bus, and this guy could tell you what the windows taste like.

Now pardon me while I go change my shorts from laughing so hard I had an accident.

No, You Magnificent Bastard, I Don't Want To Try Out That Weapon

Warning: Try not to blast today's meal on your screen.

Dear BATFE: Is it legal to mount a Fleshlight on a SIG SB-15?

And yes, gentle readers, the BATFE responded.

I know today is Thanksgiving.
This is not the "stuffing" you were looking for.

Tsunami Warning

This could be YUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE!

If Trump hits 270, even money Shrillary and Bill are in a non-extradition country by noon tomorrow.

Time For You To Go, Officers

North Miami police shoot unarmed black therapist, with hands raised, unarmed, while he was trying to calm down an autistic patient, armed only with a small toy truck.

link

There is preliminary information that North Miami police officers were dispatched to the scene after a 911 call was received of an armed male suspect threatening suicide. Arriving officers attempted to negotiate with two men on the scene, one of whom was later identified as suffering from autism. The other man was later identified as an employee of an assisted living facility. At some point during the on-scene negotiation, one of the responding officers discharged his weapon, striking the employee.

Really, jackasses?!?!?

So finding instead two UNarmed males, attempting in point of fact no crime whatsoever, your Officer Fuckstick carefully and considerately shot the unarmed black man, in broad daylight, with a clear view, and while his hands were documentedly raised far away from his body, hands empty of anything.

Fucking geniuses with badges.

Let's try that again, only with another 70 IQ points applied:

 Officer Random Fuckstick has been fired for cause from the North Miami PD, arrested, and turned over to the Miami-Dade County district attorney, to be prosecuted for one count of attempted murder, which under FL law as attempted murder in the third degree is a second degree felony, and carries a possible sentence of life in prison. He is also being referred to the US Atty.'s office immediately for violation of civil rights under color of authority for further federal prosecution after the state trial. He will also be administratively stripped of all sovereign and qualified immunity for his actions, and plaintiff(s) will therefore be able to recover damages directly from him for his conduct and its consequences, as well as from the city.

 North Miami and their PD has zero tolerance for anyone, citizen or police officer, shooting unarmed innocents, and holds their police to a higher standard.

Absent reality and common sense breaking out, or multiple brain transplants to the Chief of Police in North Miami and his PIO minions, let alone the leadership of the North Miami police union and rank and file, who should be clamoring for this idiot's head to be delivered on a platter - but won't, because Team Blue - let me state for the record, ahead of the BLM useful idiots, that random crazy people clearly haven't gunned down enough police officers yet to fully get your attention, you bunch of cowardly incompetent murderous bastards.

This is only evidentiary item #3,217,723 that the police ARE the problem.

Not all of them, not everywhere, and not every time.
But this incident will doubtless fuel the fires of crazy, and more officers who didn't do this will be gunned down exactly like the last few batches, to punish vicariously the one(s) who do, have, and will continue to act this way, since time beyond accounting.

That this kind of crap continues to occur 25 years after Rodney King, at a time when widespread unrest is poised to explode, precisely when most we need a professional, circumspect, and well-trained police, only makes the continued failure to perform to any bare minimum standard of competence doubly damning.

The only thing that made this "just" a shooting, instead of another police murder execution, was the abysmal marksmanship of the PD's incompetent minions despite total tactical dominance over two unarmed and criminally innocent victims, at a range measured in feet, which is a thin reed for the average citizen to hang his survival on every time any one or more police are anywhere within 100 yards, fangs out, and dumber than a bag of hammers, time after time after time after mother-effing time. The video documents that the PD in this instance were approaching from cover, and that at least one of them was carrying (and pointing) an M-4gery style carbine at the unarmed men at the time of the shooting. If nothing else, fire the shooter and his partner for that: both inappropriate deployment and use of weapons, and lousy accuracy.

I'm henceforth all out of fucks to give for the victims and families of every police officer shot from here on out. You've played your last "one bad apple" card. Burn down the orchard. 
Perhaps it's time to either take all your guns away 24/7/365, and mandate any response will be solely by unarmed officials, or else simply disband entirely all armed and uniformed patrols, and take our chances without police running around armed and stupid, 24/7/365, once and for all. Word to all departments: Police Academy and the sequels were comedies, not training films. (We'll ignore, for the moment, the myriad reasons why feds with guns should be concurrently reduced somewhere between 90 and 99% as well.) Police collectively and individually have blown too many chances, and continue to, and no matter how harsh the blowback, no additional learning occurs. Ever.

This wasn't in some Podunk town with 3 officers averaging 300 pounds, and a weekend correspondence course for training. It was in friggin' North Miami, FL.

Maybe total unemployment, or when their chances in Anytown for making it through a shift alive are lower than for a guy riding shotgun on an Iraqi convoy in 2004, some small number of the police may elect to re-connect with the citizenry as equals, and return to maintaining law and order amongst the community, instead of over it from on untouchable high. In any event, it's probably going to take a Vietnam War-esque body count of officers every year before the light of reality dawns on most of your membership.

You, the police, have become a cancer on the society that hired you and a plague upon those you formerly served, for far too long to tolerate any further.
Hoping for collective change from you is like cheering at the Special Olympics, and ignoring the consequences was never an option.
Blame entirely yourselves.






(Entirely for bonus points, I'd love to hear the exact 911 call(s) in question, and how they were relayed, to determine if the dispatcher fucked up the information by the numbers, and helped create the situation in the first place. It doesn't absolve the officer on the scene, who is theoretically trained to employ the Mk I Mod 0 eyeball in all situations, which should have led to not falling back, and shooting from cover at an unarmed person, with zero appreciation of common sense or what was going on. 
But 3:1 odds some civil service Affirmative Action hire with D-level English skills contributed materially to misinformation to arriving officers, and should similarly be charged with gross incompetence, depraved indifference and reckless endangerment, and similarly terminated for cause and referred for further prosecution, should that turn out to be the case.
Whoever put it out as "armed man threatening suicide", someone else should fry on this.
And if the PIO made it up out of whole cloth, that would be your target, for accessory to attempted murder, after the fact.
100% certainty none of that will ever happen, and 9:1 against any of it coming out until the settlement phase of the inevitable civil suit.)

The Honorable Associate Justice Antonin Gregory Scalia - RIP

Word comes today that Associate Justice Antonin Scalia, the lion of conservatism and strict constitutionalism on the Supreme Court, died today on a hunting trip in Texas.
When you see the flags half-masted this time, know that it's for a man among men, and a brilliant legal mind and staunch defender of the Republic as intended by the Founding Fathers.
We have lost a giant today.



With respect to the question of replacing him on the court, if Bitch McConnell and the cacophonous collection of cronies dubiously identified as the Republican caucus in the U.S. Senate can't manage to stonewall any attempt by lame duck HopeyDopey to replace him before the change of office next January, the entire collection of them isn't worth a bucket of pig droppings.

Should they perform their usual senatorial maneuver these last few years, and present the President with their offered hindquarters, pants helpfully already around their ankles, their reward in a just world would be to subsequently find their heads on the end of pike poles, and separated from their bodies by some yards of distance.

This is also the reason the utter idiots agitating for Trump have to be finally and decisively shown the door. This and the prospect of 1-3 additional SCOTUS appointments over the next 4-8 years is why electing a president is too important a task, among many such, to be left to a bunch of chattering @$$clowns.

Current College Grads = Functional Morons

It's far worse than you thought:

Nearly 10% of college graduates surveyed in a poll believe Judith Sheindlin, aka "Judge Judy," serves on the Supreme Court.

It also found that almost 60% of college graduates couldn't correctly identify a requirement for ratifying a constitutional amendment and 40% of college graduates didn't know that Congress has the power to declare war.

Additionally, the poll revealed that less than 50% of college graduates surveyed know that presidential impeachments are tried before the U.S. Senate.

         CNN link

Proof, if you needed it, that over 50% of college students shouldn't even be there, and that far more than 50% of college faculty (probably upwards of 80% outside the hard sciences) are incapable of educating anyone on anything, being functional morons themselves, albeit with advanced degrees.

This is stuff that a junior or senior in high school would have been expected to rattle off less than a generation ago, and information not unknown to any number of brighter middle school students.

Apparently, out of pity, they didn't administer the survey in question to actual tenured college faculty, at least not knowingly.

A college diploma has become the ultimate Participation Trophy in the educational Olympics. It got this way because for at least two generations, parents, students, alleged educators, and government busybodies have learned entirely the wrong lesson from the Scarecrow's tale in L. Frank Baum's beloved Wizard Of Oz.

The cost and benefit inflation that's invaded post-secondary education via Big Government has undeniably reached the point where the bubble has to burst; letting government pay for college has merely caused tuition to rise at orders of magnitude faster than outside inflation, saddling students with debt they'll never pay off in most cases, thus legalizing indentured servitude, and provided full employment for a generation of retarded hippies at thousands of unneeded and essentially worthless institutions of non-learning. And the difference between pay-for-play diploma mills and Harvard or Stanford is not really measurable with existing instrumentation. If you or anyone you know is college-bound despite these facts, at least plead with them to get their credits cut-rate, at the local community junior college "13th Grade", rather than buying them retail for upwards of $40K/year. There's no sense whatsoever in buying your BS gold-plated, at full mark-up.

Clearly, sheepskins from anywhere would be more valuable these days if they were printed on actual sheepskin. And the current ones, even from top colleges, would be more useful if they were printed on perforated sheets of Charmin.

But with these results, it's doubtful a plurality of college graduates know what to do with a roll of toilet paper if you handed it to them.

The Revenant

After yesterday's thoroughly enjoyable flick experience, I was hoping to write another one today for this pic.
I was also hoping to win the Powerball and become a billionaire.
Both hopes turned out about the same.

Despite this being Leonardo DiCaprio, I hoped that he'd finally settled down to start making the movies I think he's probably capable of doing, with some years and seasoning under his belt. Evidently, he thinks he does his best work when near freezing to death.
He is mistaken, as was I.

Director Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu's would-be epic tale of survival in the frozen frontier of early 1800's America (and after all, who better to helm such a story than someone from the frozen wilderness of...Mexico? WTF??) is Leo, and a thoroughly unmemorable cast of redshirts, who mainly die off in droves to add some sense of urgency to this Hollywoodized tale of life and brutality in the wilderness.

The villain, some forgettable piece of porkchop who in both the real life 1800s, and five minutes into the movie, would have been picking his teeth off of someone's rifle butt, plays his role as an unredeemable douchebag to the hilt, which is also how he finally goes out, albeit 2 hours too late to suit me. Surprising me not a whit, he has no notion of wound care lore from no harder to find mention than the biblical parable of the Good Samaritan, some 1800 years prior, but he does manage to drag God into his excuse for every shitty and villainous act he performs in the flick. Why the studio didn't just make him a child-molesting Catholic priest or a huckstering Protestant con man, and get it over with, is beyond me, but I'll bet someone in Tinseltown is kicking himself right this minute for not going there.

In fact, I've made no secret of the fact that in the utterly shitworthy flick Gravity, by 10 minutes into the movie at most, I was rooting for the debris to kill the entire cast. This movie is Gravity set in the Rockies in the early 1800s.

In true Hollywood fashion, the white men are all worthless, land-raping, Indian-hating, baby killers, while the native tribespeople are all just humble misunderstood noble savages, practicing sustainable living and low-impact low-carbon-footprint subsistence living in harmony with Mother Earth and Father Sky.

The token couple of decent white people are inept, while the Indians are ninja masters of stealth and Chris Kyle-esque archers, and the slob trappers only capable of laying around getting drunk, raping Indians and the wilderness, but bereft of such wilderness rudiments as map-reading, wayfinding, hunting for food, or basic care for injuries.

If he wasn't Leonardo DiCaprio, the Glass character would certainly have died from the collection of dogshit, buffalo chips, mud, piss, and other concoctions slathered on his wounds, sustained by a notable CGI-palooza of a grizzly bear attack, which underlines the salient point that .50BMG is not too much gun for such an encounter. Fortunately, when he's too weak to carry on, burning with fever from infected grizzly wounds after his mauling, and liable to die, his companions helpfully bump, bang, and clatter him all over hell and gone with naught but the bear's skinned hide to protect him from freezing temperatures. No one feeds him or gives him drink (they even leave a gaping hole in his throat to make such care impossible until he thoughtfully adds gunpowder wounds to the hole in his throat (because charred flesh always heals better than a clean cut, right?), but even after being abandoned by his companions (including the Villain - who could ever have seen that clever plot twist coming from Minute 5 of the movie? Okay, every swinging Richard in the theatre, we'll grant you... But Suspension of Disbelief, right? Right??) he helpfully crawls some miles on his belly, navigates down a 500 ft cliff, and then is helpfully revived by bouncing over rapids and rocks after a hasty immersion in 33-degree snowmelt to escape the avenging Indians.

Then he builds a wicked-clever textbook rock fishtrap, but has to resort to catching them with his hands instead of say, using a sharp pointy stick amidst lush forests, and eats them raw rather than slog the 10 feet to his campfire to cook them, because, fuck, I dunno...Gollum...??

Then, fat on trout or salmon, let alone motion picture craft service, he is forced to drag his raw-fish-eating ass to beg for food from a helpfully provided friendly Indian feasting on a convenient wolf-killed buffalo. Which same ravenous wolves somehow managed not to notice Leo's sleeping and injured ass 20 yards away. Evidently Leo didn't smell as bad in the wilderness as the writing does in this steaming pile.

Not to worry though, because after being the only effing one in the entire Great White North to know how to build a brush shelter during a blizzard, the friendly Indian gets whacked by more eeeeeeeeevil white men, the same ones who've kidnapped the Indian girl to serially rape for entertainment while trading with the Indians who killed the American white men because they were looking for the ones who stole the Indian woman who...oh, sweet suffering shit, White Men Bad, Red Men Noble, I get it! Quit beating the audience over the fucking head with that club in every scene, for fuck's sake!

Mind you, you can't take your eyes off the scenes. Because the director and the director of photography are co-conspirators in shoving the camera lens so far up the actor's asses you can see the lens fog when they fart. Apparently they only had 2 lenses, one a wide angle used to get panoramic shots of whereverinhell they shot the wilderness scenes, and one a 2000mm telephoto so they could show you the paramecium crawling on Leo's nose hairs in half the movie, during which he utters no actual dialogue more substantial than grunts of impotent and infirm rage and pain as he struggles to survive to the next page of script, while the audience struggles to find a reason for living.

By the end of this movie, the audience still awake has survived an ordeal far more grueling than anything seen on screen, and the entire cast is so one-dimensional and uninvolving you just want the Yellowstone Caldera to erupt and engulf them all in a well-deserved flaming apocalyptic conflagration.
Then the movie ends, and you wish the same fate would befall the entire chain of jackholes who inflicted this gargantuan pile of offal on the screen, as just punishment. And you envy the bear for being dead, and missing most of the whole saga.

I had hopes that this would be a worthy successor to iconic masterpiece movies like The Big Sky, Jeremiah Johnson, The Outlaw Josey Wales, or Dances With Wolves.
Alas, it is instead kin with movies like Barry Lyndon, Heaven's Gate, Ishtar, and Waterworld.
Maybe they should have just gone with it, and named it Plan 9 From Outer Montana.

Don't see this in the theatre. Don't watch it on cable. Don't even wait for the DVD/BD, or even catch it on Netflix. Buy it bootleg from China for 50 cents, or better yet, wait for it to be on sale in the bargain bin at BigLots! or the 99 Cent Store, and use the discs to make shiny hanging bird-scaring devices for your wife's herb garden.

I won't even go into everything wrong with this beyond that, save this brief catalog of howlers:

No one builds any fire not large enough to roast half a buffalo in; even the Schmohawk Indians here build monstrous huge White Man fires.

Savvy trappers mount no watch. Ever. And can't hunt or fish to save their lives.

Keep showing the map, but keep repeating that only Leo knows how to get us back home. Then, inexplicably, get back without his help.

No one has the slightest clue how to treat wounds, despite such lore, miles from the glories of 19th century medicine, being rather acutely needful on a daily basis.

Indian arrows fly flat and straight, and punch through flesh like crossbow bolts, hitting targets from beyond human sight.

There's no need, camping and trapping among savages, to do anything important like watch a perimeter, pre-load your gear, or do much besides laze around 5-ft tall campfires wondering where room service is.

No one, white or indian, can track even Leo's wounded dragging ass as he crawls along the ground for miles and days, but the indians can miraculously find the evil White Men time after time, apparently by trusting The Force, or using Indian GPS, or some other magical plot device, because Screenwriters.

The Indians will track down an encampment of fifty white men with guns in the middle of nowhere, but when just twenty white men set out to find Leo, the Indians are nowhere around, because Magic Torches.

Indian Strategy: If we just kill enough White men, we'll find the Missing Indian Maiden.

Leo Strategy: if I make it through 37 Unbelievable Ways To Die, I find the Indian Maiden (by accident, because Foreshadowing) and Help, and The Villain, because Screenwriting x Top Billing = Had To Happen, Given 2 1/2 Hours.

When you can't write anything believable, have your star gurgle and sputter and drool, because Method Acting. For Two Solid Hours.

White Man Bad, Red Man Noble. 100 times on the blackboard, lest ye forget. Despite the fact that at the time of Beethoven, railroads, and steamboats, the equivalent Indian civilization "deserved" the land, having successfully slaughtered, raped, and enslaved each other in an endless Stone Age cultural gang-bang going back to the first pre-Eskimoes to navigate across the Bering Sea in prehistory, unencumberd by anything closer than 10,000 years to equivalent Western culture. Because hysterical Historical Revisionism.

My rating: This movie left me totally cold.

And don't bitch to me about spoilers.
This POS was spoiled when it came out of the package.
All I did was give it a sniff.

The Farce Awakens - Spoilerpalooza

I tried not to write this review, but there isn't enough Zofran in the world to contain the nausea this disasterpiece engenders.

Caveats:
1) I can be as geeky as the next ubergeeky person over the Star Wars franchise given sufficient provocation; at the tender age of (mumblemumble) I stood with my baby brother in a line that stretched around the entire theatre and down the block to see it when it opened, at the then-unheard of luxurious two-screen movie theatre in the 'burbs of Los Angeles. (It's a Crate & Barrel now). I probably saw it five times that spring/summer alone. It was pure unequalled iconic big-screen magic. I had the soundtrack album. Blah blah blah. My geek flag is at full mast, and my bona fides secure.
2) They had TEN EFFING YEARS to write and make this sequel; they had ONE job...
 
I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. I feel something terrible has happened. 
My Review: It's an irredeemable piece of shit.
Pray, let me elucidate.

It has ample effects, two generations more advanced that the humble matte painting and rotoscoping of the original in 1977.
It is digitized and sound-rich beyond even George Lucas THX-fueled imagination.

But that's icing. And not nearly enough to save this mega-whale of craptacity, this hippopotamus of horseshit, this sub-continent of putrescence.

Because the original was a scrappy indie-feeling movie of gifted nobodies and solid professionals that captured lightning in a bottle, where story, craft, music, effects, locations, dialogue, and the Campbell-esque Journey Of The Hero combined to give the entire world a brand new widescreen epic story we'd known all our lives.

This outing looks like a herd of buffalo ate the original film, shat it out their ample haunches, trampled and pissed upon it, and then J.J. Abrams scraped it together and spliced it into something so horrible, the like hasn't been seen since, oops, actually since Star Trek: Into Dorkness circled the bowl a couple of short years ago.

This movie didn't pay homage to the original Star Wars, it aped it, except badly, classlessly, and with less talent everywhere on the call sheet.

We open with a silhouette of a giant Imperial cruiser swooping down on a helpless desert planet. (Those of you who remember the first Star Wars before they started numbering the crawls, stop me if you've seen this somewhere before...)
Then, we have the epitome of evil evilly slaughtering innocents in an epic evil mismatch. (Again, stop me if you've seen this somewhere before.)
Then Ultimate Evil Bad Guy storms onto the scene, looking for a droid carrying the Empire's secret plans for an All New, Even Bigger Death Star being smuggled to the rebellion.
(Stop me if you've seen this somewhere before.)
Then His Cosmic Badness throttles some petty redshirt bit player, and takes a captive aboard his ship to question. (I'll simply abbreviate this to "SMIYSTSB..." from here on out.)
Then we cut to said droid bopping along alone on said desert planet. SMIYSTSB.
It happenstantially blunders into a plucky but Force-strong bumpkin on said desert planet. SMIYSTSB.
Then, in a blinding leap to a new idea Denzel Washington Will Smith Chris Rock Martin Lawrence (oops, forgot Billie Dee Williams) Sumdoodyou'veneverfrickingheardofbefore decides to bail out of Whitey's Gestapo, because puppies, unicorns, and reasons, because ticking off plot points, and as luck would have it, needs the greatest starship pilot evah to escape the Imperial clutches. SMIYSTSB.
And then tens of thousands of trained troops armed to the teeth, and a starship the size of Florida are no match for their plucky escape from His Evil Badness. SMIYSTSB.
And they escape to the desert planet. While His Evil Badness vows to swoop down and reclaim his prey, and save the Empire from rebel scum. SMIYSTSB.
After bowing to Big Giant Head, deformed with the scars that only come from being the Evil Genius of the Dark Side. SMIYSTSB.

I could go on, endlessly (like the movie) stumbling from every exact scene stolen from the first three movies, and every script idea and plot point from the first three movies, and all done with less panache, originality, or necessity than the first three movies, but - exactly like this movie - to what end?

Then, inevitably, there are the gazillion "Everything Wrong With This Movie" stumbles, bumbles, and outright fuckups.

1) WTF? Doesn't anybody in the Empire First Order have a copy of where Darth and Palpatine went off the rails on a shelf somewhere?
2) The whole thing that made Darth Evil Incarnate was the black skull mask, which he only pulled off five seconds before he died, after a lead-in of THREE FUCKING MOVIES. This guy can't last 2 hours before whipping his off. Imagine seeing the entire shark in Jaws in every scene for an hour, rather than halfway through the movie. Or giving Anthony Perkins away in the opening shot of Psycho. Blistering fuck, someone send J.J. a screenwriting book or something.
3) While we're at it, the original took the imposing size of Anthony Prowse and the Ultimate Voice Of All Time to personify Vader. The guy in this flick looks like someone so goofy looking and unimposingly dorkish that Peter Jackson couldn't even find a part for him in Lord Of The Rings or The Hobbit. But if Andy Sirkis and Jerry Seinfeld ever had a gay test tube love child, this guy is it. Like the PC ersatz Blofeld in the last retchworthy Bond flick, this guy is out-eviled in the looks department by Mini-Me.
4) Luke and Leia wiped out the Emperor, reclaimed Darth, and wiped the Empire off the map. So WTF is it doing back, bigger and badder than ever?
5) HTF does Junior Vader have the ability to stop blaster energy bolts in midair and suspend people in the air with a wave of his Sith hand? Even Palpatine couldn't do that shit, and Vader had to resort to physically cracking necks from time to time. The only explanation that works is that the new Sith are 'roided up on synthetic mitichlorions or something.
6) It took Luke three movies, and training by Obi Wan and Yoda to become a full Jedi, but Plucky Orphan Chick can pull that shit off in less than half a movie? Calling BS there too.
7) The Empire stand-in just happens to build a convenient weak point into the New Mega-Death Ball? SMIYSTSB
That requires  ships to fly into it and blow up the core? SMIYSTSB
While a small rebel force infiltrates the shield generator on the surface? SMIYSTSB
Fuck me for noticing, but the only way to telegraph this from farther back than 1977 would have been if the entire crew of the damned thing was made up of Oompa Loompahs.
8) Seeing Karen Allen in the last Indiana Jones And The Temple Of What The Fuck is enough to make any male fan of the original movie turn gay, after one look at her in her senior-citizen prime. Merciful heavens, she was cute enough in the original movie, and Animal House, and Starman, to never ruin that by showing her to us trying to be an ingénue in Depends.
So what effing genius thought torturing Carrie Fisher into dropping 30 pounds just to drag her ancient ass onto the screen in this one was worth the effort?? I almost barfed out an entire bag of pocorn with that reveal in this flick. I remember where I saw Fisher looking like this: she was one of the mummies in the first Indiana Jones.
Shades of Cryptkeeper.
9) Harrison Ford clearly paid big bucks to get shanked like such a bitch in this flick. We haven't seen this monumental a betrayal of a character since Samuel Jackson took it in the pants in the prequels. But to get him out of any more of these outings, it was either this, or like Alec Guiness and Denholm Eliot, actually die to avoid the sequels.
Even at 70, Han still would've shot first, you effing pussy screenwriting wannabes.
Where is the real Captain Solo, and what have they done with him?

I'll stop there, with the prediction that the YouTube version of Everything Wrong With The Force Awakens In Five Minutes will be retitled Everything Wrong With The Force Awakens In One Hundred Thirty Six Minutes, and simply provide a link to the complete film online.

Abrams proved, with the reboot of Star Trek, that he could pull this kind of thing off, with a little magic, and a whole lot of lens flare.
With Star Trek: Into Dorkness and this festering pile of hog dung, he also proved that was a one-time fluke. There is no cinematic immunity for this level of crimes against humanity.
(And I'm 98% certain at this point that J.J. stands for Jar Jar.)

Please, someone, yank this franchise away from him, before he Sam Mendes' in his pants, and all over the entire franchise, and pay any price, bear any burden, to get the only guy in Hollywood to master sequels well enough to ace three tentpole franchise movies in a row: Peter Jackson. (Something that even Coppola couldn't do with Godfather movies.)

Or go get Joss Wheedon to do it, since we're never going to get anything more of Firefly out of him, and cross the streams of geekness between Browncoats and Star Wars groupies (like they aren't mostly the exact same people anyway). Hell, let him have fun with it: Mal, Zoe, Wash, Jayne, Kaylee, and the gang couldn't possibly have made any bigger hash of things than this POS did. And Ron Glass would make one hell of an updated Jedi Master.

The worst thing is that if you've never seen the earlier movies, you can't watch this movie.
And if you have seen the earlier movies, you can't watch this movie. Without screaming.

But now that they've made their pile off of us hopelessly gullibly optimistic fans, if you haven't seen it yet, don't. Proving that Disney's check for $6 B-b-b-b-billion has cleared, even Himself, George Lucas, creator of the whole shebang, and who knows raping his own franchise when he does it himself sees it, has called this thing out for the monumental douchiness it brings to life in living color. When Shakespeare tells you that your version of Hamlet sucks, it sucks.

There is one bright silver lining in this entire fiasco:
Seth Green and the wonderful folks at Robot Chicken will be able to make a living ripping the guts out of this one in Claymation genius for decades, just off this one atrocious misadventure.
Given the comedy gold of their prior work, that is no small consolation.

Like many of you, I'll still hope they somehow pull their heads out for the last two, but after seeing this one, I will hope that with about as much likelihood as I have of ever having James Cameron feature Sigourney Weaver and Michael Biehn awake from the hypersleep of Aliens, and say "Damn, I had the worst nightmares...!" and then pretend everything cinematically before then never happened.

Which was how I felt after I walked out of the theatre for this one.