I don’t want to fuck this chick for the same reason I don’t want to watch a movie with subtitles.

It was announced today that Megan Fox has ended her engagement with Brian Austin Green from the O.G. 90210. And every straight man in Los Angeles cheered. All three of them.

Except me. I just don’t get this chick. She looks like a page of the Wall Street Journal with all that shit written on her. When I see Megan Fox pictures I don’t know whether to jack off or take them to the bathroom for some light reading while I go number two. Writing quotes from Shakespeare on your shoulder blade doesn’t make you deep. It makes you pretentious. Similarly, it doesn’t make you deep to tattoo a poem on your ribcage that you wrote yourself. It makes you a narcissist. Especially when it’s something as trite as, “there once was a little girl who never knew love until a hug broke her HEART.” Nice use of unnecessary caps to punctuate your maudlin point, Meg. I shudder to think of how embarrassed I’d be today if I’d gone through with my plans to get a tattoo of the poem I wrote in middle school, “Mommy, Why Does My Butt Always Hurt After I Spend the Night at Uncle Larry’s?”

Moral? Not every thought that crosses your vapid mind needs to be commemorated in ink on your living flesh.

But I can forgive Megan for having no taste. If I kicked every girl out of my silk-sheeted rotating waterbed who had some bad ink, that five-some I had would have been reduced to a lonesome one-some. However, I can’t forgive that she tattooed “Brian” next to her in/out-box. Helpful guidelines for the ladies when selecting tattoos: if you’re going to write the name of your lover next to your honey pot in permanent ink, always make sure that 1) he’ll be the only man who ever gets to see it and 2) that man was not a cheeseball alumn of 90210. Because unlike 90210 which still walks today like a zombie across the CW’s rotting schedule, such a relationship won’t last forever. Before Megan’s recent and inevitable break-up with Brian Austin Green, she told FHM in regards to the tattoo, “[If it doesn’t work out] I can always have a kid and name him Brian.” Yeah, I’m sure the father will have no problem naming his son after the dude who broke in your O-ring (any chick into tattoos is also into anal - it’s a fact, just read your Bible), a guy you only hooked up with in the first place because he played the dork on a serialized abortion, you star-fucking fame-chaser. And the kid probably won’t think it’s creepy that mommy has his name stenciled next to her hoo-ha. Plus, I’m sure Megan will want to commemorate the birth of her offspring by memorializing one of her ex-boyfriends. God knows when I gaze deep into my child’s eyes, I want to see this:

Maybe her theory needs to be fleshed out a bit before implementation. But beyond all these brilliant and irrefutable condemnations, lies the major truth: you can’t apply new meaning to a moment in time that you CARVED INTO YOUR FUCKING BODY*. We already know what the “Brian” by your vagi-NO means. You can’t change the present by retroactively rewriting history, especially when you’ve already announced that meaning to the world in a national publication. No American actually believes our forefathers inherited this land from the noble savages already here playing in the doo-doo when the Mayflower hit Plymouth Rock. And even if you get something tattooed over his name, David “The Rapping Jew” Silver will always be lurking just below the surface of whatever tribal-sun/dolphin/pixie/poem-you-wrote-on-your-MySpace-blog tattoo you choose to obscure his unholy name. Any self-respecting man’s boner will shrivel from the two degrees of separation between Brian Austin Green and his penis. And by the way, telling us you have a back-up plan for future meanings of your tattoo only tells us that it really doesn’t mean a fucking thing at all. That you don’t mean a fucking thing at all. ‘Course, I already knew you were as empty as my gas tank just from watching the Transformers trailer, but thanks for confirming it for the rest of the world.

*That’s how you use caps to make a point, dummy.

Review by Jesse Custer

Downey Jr. in a rare studio test shot

Drugs make some people better. And I’m not talking about that sissy shit Pfizer keeps pushing during halftime (I know, I know – we’re all tempted to see what kind of crotch we could wreck with a six hour boner, but is it worth heart failure and rectal bleeding?), I mean the real stuff – heroin, crack and the unsung hero, PCP. Hasn’t slowed Keith Richards down, and he’s been shoving horse Pulp Fiction-style straight into his heart since Sticky Fingers. Face it, Nancy (I’m talking to the former first lady, not all you homos reading this), “Just say no!” wasn’t a completely fleshed out theory. Robert Downey Jr. is better living through chemistry proof of this.

champion

Art imitates life again (who can forget his lip-locked-cock turn as the junkie in Less Than Zero (this time I am talking to the homos)) as journeyman thesp Downey Jr. tackles the role of alcoholic Tony Stark like he’s Lawrence Taylor coming at Joe Theisman’s blindside (LT – another champion with a taste for baking soda and coca leaves). The result is arguably the best casting choice in Hollywood history, standing eye to eye with other such inspired picks as Schwarzeneggar’s Conan, Stallone’s Rocky, Keanu’s Johnny Utah and Jonah Hill’s Fat Guy #1.

Initiated dorks and cherry-intact noobs alike will respect the filmmakers’ athletic strides which quickly establish Stark’s entire mythology and catapult the current story. 13-year-olds reared on a steady diet of Lunchables, MTV and Ritalin will appreciate the comic adaptation’s short two hour running time, a rarity in a genre dominated by masturbatory three hour snooze fests with no eye candy except for Dunst’s D-cup droopers (can’t they CGI out the sag?). Action junkies will “ooh” and “aah” at every ‘splosion while aspiring filmmakers will appreciate the craft at work on every level of this production. Expect the four credited writers’ quote to skyrocket like Tony Stark’s blood-alcohol level at an open bar.

Fantastic pretending too. Jeff Bridges pulls off Obadiah Stane with an understated touch that breathes true life into a two-dimensional funny book villain. Gwenyth “I hate apple pie” Paltrow rekindles likeability unseen since se7en. Leslie Bibb – whose performance in site fave Sex and Death 101 gave sticky-fingered co-lead Winona a run for her money – continues to show the same promise evidenced in Talladega Nights. I did want Terrance Howard to put more Hustle and Flow edge on Stark’s hetero life-partner Rhodey, but he still hits all his marks. Stan “The Man” Lee Excelsior’s cameo is his best yet, even trumping his po-mo appearance with Lou Ferrigno in The Hulk That Universal Wants You to Forget. And dorkrector Jon Favreau steps in front of the camera as Happy Hogan to let us all know that a shake for breakfast and lunch and a sensible dinner really does work. But make no mistake, Iron Man is no ensemble piece. This is the house that Robert Downey Jr. built.

The star even showed up with Favreau at The Arclight in Hollywood for last night’s midnight showing to welcome all us dorks who’d rather ogle Jean Grey’s tits through a protective polyurethane sleeve than risk the rejection of hitting on a real woman. And since you’re obviously not important enough to receive the same treatment, I’ll just pass along their closing words: stay through the credits. Best post-credit bumper since Ferris Bueller told us to hit the bricks.

Iron Man = triumph