I Hate Poor People

Let's face it, no one likes seeing the same defeated faces every time they want a little breakfast. Having to point at a picture menu and repeat "Croissan'wich" four fucking times is tough enough, but being forced to acknowledge someone's pathetic minimum-wage existence can be a real a.m. bummer.

I'm just so tired of poor people mucking up the morning; I'm tired of their sad, filthy faces; I'm tired of having to breathe the polluted air they make with their weird food and bad breath; and I'm especially tired of having to honk at their crappy cars putting along in the fast lane at an awesome 45 mph.

It's not that I hate people for being poor; I just hate poor people. I do appreciate their back-breaking, bargain labor but dread having to look at them and their poorness so early in the morning. And the evening. Fuck, I guess I hate seeing them all the time really.

It's a growing problem we've all had to learn to deal with. Until now, that is. You see, I've been working on a solution. Imagine this: A world with .99 cent Crispy Chicken Nuggets but no poor people to give you sweet and sour sauce instead of fucking barbeque, a world in which the poor all live on some island we can't see, a hidden, magical Work Island.

We would first need to dedicate one of our useless, crappy islands in the pacific to host the Work Island program. For instance, Hawaii's remote location and already impoverished attitude would make for a smooth transition into the poor-person paradise we will come to know as Work Island. Littering, sleeping on the streets, and general lawlessness will be encouraged; and every willing participant will recieve a job in a giant factory, a 1987 Toyota Trecel, and a really nice pair of cowboy boots.

Later, responsiblities on Work Island will be delegated to participants, consisting of nothing but twelve-hour work shifts, manufacturing "Poor Person Replacement Robots". Participants would be paid in cheap, fattening snacks, and gold-plated car accessories, which they could trade amongst each other for fun or profit. Health services will have to be a cooperative effort rendered by friends and neighbors.

The PPRR's will be programmed to wash windows, sweep floors, and understand key phrases like "You call these curly fries!?"; "Where the fuck is my ranch?"; and "I said no onions, asshole." After careful testing and inspection, the PPRR's will be shipped back to the U.S. to fill the poor-person void created by Work Island.

Esentially, the ultimate poor-person paradise would be offered in exchange for a steady production of PPRR's. Everyone wins. The poor are happy, probably lying drunk in a dumpster in the pacific; and I no longer have to feel bad for making ten to twenty times more than the little shit who better hurry the fuck up with my Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger.

Let me be frank, after eight hours of expense reports and job cost analysis, I don't have the fucking time or energy to step over and around the poor people lying all over the ground. Is it my fault that instead of going home and sleeping in their big warm beds, they steal shopping carts and sleep on the fucking sidewalk, just to bug the shit out of me on the way into Starbucks?

Spare change!? Listen here, Joe Homeless Guy, the three quarters jingling in my pocket is the difference between a Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino and just some regular cup of crap coffee. So, you best just find yourself the first boat headed toward Work Island, buddy, because you ain't getting a god damn dime out of this tax paying american.

Ladder 49 - I'd Rather My House Burn to the Fucking Ground

You saw it coming; I saw it coming. It crept up on us with a few TV dramas and eventually shat itself onto the big screen. I can only expect a line of toys and sugary cereals will follow. Fuck that. Fuck you for buying it. Not only did Ladder 49 fail to meet my already-low expectations, but it literally managed to bore the shit out of me; and, yes, actually, I do mean literally.

The movie initially feigns to unfold in this "crazy" nonlinear fashion by beginning at the end. Jack Morrison, played by the crappier but still alive Phoenix brother, responds to his fantasy fire, and suddenly finds himself badly injured, trapped in an 80 story concrete building after a partial collapse. As he lay dying, Morrison contemplates his life, beginning the assault of linear flashbacks and revealing the weak, if not insignificant, story.

As a decade in the life of firefighter Jack Morrison passes, from his hose fumbles as a rookie to his heroic rescues as a seasoned veteran, we see how the sacrifice and trauma of being part of the Baltimore City Fire Department impacts his relationships and mental health.

Initially, I failed to understand the purpose of the flashback story telling and thought it did little for the story. Then, I had a mental conflagration of my own and realized there was no story. There weren't even characters, just very limited, two-dimensional personas placed in impressive firefighting scenes.

As a result, it was hard, if not impossible, to identify with or actually care what happened to any of the characters. Morrison's personal development and growth didn't matter; his failing relationship with his whore wife and kids didn't fucking matter; and it was even hard to care about the nameless, token black firefighter who had his face melted off by the haunted steam pipe.

Without characters and a story, what do you have? You have a bullshit movie filled with some lame one-liners and a whole lot of fucking firefighting. Bare bones, the movie is nothing more than a sad excuse to dramatize the struggles and sacrifices a firefighter has to make in order to avoid working in an office.

At the end of the movie, Jack Morrison is finally dead and the remaining audience finds itself sitting at his funeral. The Fire Chief, poorly cast and played by John Travolta, says a few kind words; Morrison's wife sheds a few tears; and the viewer is left with this to ponder, "How is it that fireman are always running into a burning building when everyone else is running out?" Well, in the five seconds it took me to run from my seat to the bathroom, I figured it out: Money! Thats how. Firemen are paid a handsome salary in return for a service. Our country has somehow overlooked this detail in venerating and almost immortalizing firefighters. Not to say firefighters aren't important, but heroism isn't a paid gig. Firefighters are no more heroic than garbage men and office clerks.

Ladder 49 relies heavily on our nation's blind affinity for fireman and residual, misguided patriotism. The writer and director of this movie collaborated to do nothing more than exploit the gaping hole left in Americas heart by that flaming pile of shit in New York for the last few dollars it was worth. Congratulations, assholes.