Look, there’s nothing too silly about that picture of the The Minutemen. Aside from maybe their name. Sure, that’s what they’re called in the comic book, but times change. The name’s associated more these days with a ragtag bunch of Midwestern vigilante border guards famous for their 60-second premature ejaculations. Still, you can’t change it. And, really, these are characters from the ’40s. Are their tights and domino mask getups any sillier than Superman’s trunks, Batman’s ears, or Hitler’s mustache? Of course not.
Plus, Carla Gugino’s breasts. They make me want to play a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Only instead of marbles, she and I are having a sandwich picnic. And instead of hippos, I’m fondling her breasts.
This is exciting, folks. We’re finally going to see our favorite Watchmen on screen again for the very first time. At last, we’ll witness Billy Crudup’s glowing blue penis and marvel at its decision to dump Mary Louise Parker for Claire Danes. Truly every fan’s dream.
So why isn’t Alan Moore’s name attached? Is it because he’s lost faith in the Hollywood machine? Is it because The League of X-Traordinary Gentlemenz burgled all his faith in humanity? Is it because From Hell failed to achieve any ambition beyond fulfilling a teenage goth girl’s dream casting? Or is it, as I suspect, that Moore is too busy focusing all his powers of Chaos Magick on Watchmen: The Motion Picture‘s ultimate success that he’s too busy for petty credit disputes?
It takes an awful lot of concentration to achieve a gnostic state. As a practicing Chaos Magic(k)ian, Moore may be better than most, but there’s only so much power one man can hold in the palms of his claw-ringed hands. Now, you may be saying this could never work. You may be saying that Chaos Magick is “nonsense” or “nothing but delusional wishful thinking on par with Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret” or that “Alan Moore is a fool for believing that staring at a quasi-pagan doodle could ever warp reality.” You put on a fancy t-shirt and play-act as Joe Q. Everyman unknowingly wandering into a future movie theater as you say in a high pitched whine, “Wait, what year is this supposed to be? Is that guy dressed like an owl? I’m going to the Tom Cruise Nazi movie next door. Hitler’s mustache was so silly! La la la!”
Oh, but have some faith, brother. For what magic is this that allowed for Carla Gugino’s breasts to grace the silver screen one more time? Chaos Magick.
Talk to you later.