Well. I've been at this blogging thing for a year now (give or take a day or so), and I thank all of you who read this deeply sincere, contradiction-ridden, hideously profane malarkey. While I'm a self-deprecating sort by nature, enough of you tell me how much you enjoy this stuff that I figure I'm doing okay for myself here.
I do, however, know when I'm beat. Behold this review of Yogi Bear. First off, thanks for taking one for the team, Cyriaque Lamar; there's no fuckin way in hell I was going to see that picture. Even if I had kids I'd pull the snob fascist Dad "I will not deign to have my progeny pollute their yet-developing aesthetic with such fluffy foofery" routine (oh yeah, hypothetical offspring, it's nothing but Joyce, Bartok, and Impressionist summer camp for you little motherfuckers . . . heh heh heh.)
Second of all, I can't compete with anyone named Cyriaque Lamar. Nor will I try. That'd just be dumb.
Third . . . hell yes. THAT'S fuckin film criticism, goddammit. Last summer, io9 had a similarly brilliant take on Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. In lesser hands, the "assume an ironic pose with no connection to the movie whatsoever for the sole purpose of looking cool" gambit would be douche-y and precious . . . but these are not lesser hands. io9, I salute thee.
Fourth, it's an excuse to close things out with the most brilliant fan vid that nearly made my Top Ten of the year (for which, stay tuned!) I give you The Assassination of Yogi Bear By The Coward Boo Boo Ford.
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