Don’t get me wrong this movie IS really cool. Dinosaurs are and always will be awesome, but the big problem I have with this movie are the fucking Velociraptors. Are you fucking kidding me? Sure, the name Velociraptor itself just threatens death, injury and it sounds like something that would rip your face right off, but in actuality the Velociraptor was only about a foot and a half tall and covered in feathers. (No it could not fly, but that would be kick ass if it could.) It was more like a turkey on steroids.
 
The dinosaur depicted in Jurassic Park more closely resembles a Deinonychus— its name derived from the Greek word meaning “terrible claw” due to the unusually large, sickle-shaped talon on the second toe of each hind foot. Even though the Deinonychus is 10 times more badass than the actual Velociraptor the name just doesn’t sound that ominous.  
 
Look at it this way, it would be like making a movie about peanuts and casting Tom fucking Hanks to play the part of George Washington Carver just because George Washington Carver sounds like a white dude name. I say fuck that! Steven Spielberg and Michael Crichton have invented some whole new type of racism and it’s a type of racism I for one can’t get behind.

It was a girl, I think, now that I look back on it from this present time that started me down this long, devious, and twisted path. A girl who put me into the current frame of mind and this powerful presence of self empowerment. A hundred thousand lies upon lies that perpetuate this dastardly, diabolical duet dancing to the tune of some unholy ballet from hell. It’s all bullshit.  Some silly suturing idea of a beautiful being, wrapped up in boots and black leather will drift down and appear to me like the Virgin Mary in the deep dark desolate desert. It’s fucking tragic and so god damn beautiful… I laugh my dick right off.  

They are all just black holes connected to each other through 11 dimensions, like some sort of comic game of donkey kong, jumping over nebulas, climbing ladders and up and down galactic elevators to reach the spotless princess only to find that she split with the overwhelming one who took her higher and higher. So I take a swig of this wonderful liquid. It’s that battle array that brings me back to reality, now nothing and everything can go wrong this night and all my missing limbs will be replaced.  
 
An exploding brain is an example of perfect control. So let’s add some more fuel to the never-ending, wickedly mind-bending, tire fire inside my head. Good luck, Buster you are doomed.

He’s that dude.
The Chubby Chaser.

The one who hangs right outside the barbwire fence on the south-east side of the camp for corpulent young women. He’s out there all day eyeballing the Biggums as they saunter by on their daily jaunts about the undergrowth, taking pant after puff from his long rockets whilst the Boom-Box, plastic zip-tied  to the front of his ten-speed, thumps out Unskinny Bop by Poison in excess.

Outfitted with only an unzipped black leather jacket, a pair of teal “Sleep Away Camp” gym shorts, and a red, white and blue headband, he intermittently whistles at each rotund goddess that he deems laudable of a hand job and a hot tub. He knew he had an obsession early in life when he found himself jerking off to Pillsbury Doh-Boy commercials. Now-a-days, this is where he hangs- outside the camp enticing the “chosen” girls with Fun-Size Snickers bars in a reflection of delightful excellence. They call him the Snake Charmer.