pull the trigger, quentin
Quentin Tarantino, I always had you pegged as the worst sort of film-school geek. Your movies are empty homages to classics done better a generation or two ago. And you can cram as many "F" words and bullets into your films as you want, but you're still a fake.
I've never been able to make it through one of your movies. I fell asleep while watching Reservoir Dogs on video. I know it had some guys in suits, and that's about all I can recall. And I walked out of Pulp Fiction about forty minutes in, when they're in the restaurant where "Buddy Holly" is the host and "Marilyn" is the waitress—a nauseating overload of empty pop references, all of them refracted off your greasy chin, Quentin, sent me running for the door. And now I hear that you have a new movie out, and I'm sure it's horrible, and I wish you'd quit playing around and pull a trigger for real...ONCE...please.
I saw you about six or seven years ago on Jay Leno, slobbering like a goony fanboy over a mint-condition Brady Bunch board game presented to you by Florence Henderson. I thought, "I don't like this Tarantino fellow. He rubs me the wrong way. I don't like his movies, and now I know why—because I don't like him, either."
I disapprove of you. I wish harm upon you. I summon the ancient Nordic demons to molest you as you try to sleep. I hope your coffee machine, blender, and toaster all break on the same day.
