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ISSUE #124
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Features

ArrowImmune to Reality
Why is the GOP so worried about telecom immunity?
Allan Uthman

ArrowHardballin' with Chris Matthews
An infuriating encounter
Ian Murphy

ArrowHormone Whore Moans
Doping in baseball? No shit, Mitchell
Paul Jones

ArrowChildren's Campaign
Young voters are heartbreakers
Tina Dupuy

ArrowThe First 100 Days
Our graphic projections for the three possible next presidents

ArrowRecession Recipes that won't Break the Bank
The bank can't foreclose on these subprime delights!

ArrowDeath, Taxes & Celebrity
Leeching on Lohan & Ledger
Steve Gordon

ArrowHillary or Cobra Commander?
A serious comparison
Erich Shulte

Women's History Month content!

ArrowThe BEAST Abridged Guide to Herstory
You've come a long way, cuntbag

ArrowStrengthen your Relationship in 10 Psychotic Steps
Obsess your way to romantic success!

ArrowThe BEAST Guide to Bulimia
Famine is in!

ArrowSpecial Women's Advertising Section
Products for the modern woman

ArrowA Brief Message from the Girls of Africa
A modest request

Departments

ArrowThe Beast Page 5
Democracy Usurpers

ArrowKino Kwikees: Movie Trailer Reviews

ArrowBEAST-O-Scopes
Your completely accurate horoscope

[sic] - We ridicule your letters

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10,000 B.C.

Some years back, I went out with friends for Fat Tuesday. They kept pushing the free crawfish on me (that should’ve said it all right there, “free crawfish”) and despite my protestations of disdain for seafood, I ate some. I think the fact that Elvis Presley had a song called “Crawfish” was what eventually made me cave. Today that would just be a deal breaker for me. But my point is that I don’t associate Mardi Gras with public drunkenness, easy pickings and sloppy titties for shiny plastic beads; I associate this most festive of occasions with puking through my nose at work, and that taste—that fucking taste in my mouth.

Kind of like indigenous native peoples. Since seeing Mel Gibson’s coma-inducing Apocalypto, I associate epic extravaganzas about scantily clad ancient natives with nausea and loss of the will to live. These mongrels, heathens, or whatever politically correct euphemism you prefer, always look like they belong in a metal video, because that’s the only place you’re going to see white guys with dreads and face paint who look like they belong more in a beer commercial than ancient… wherever. And of course the random stray scrotum or pair of National Geographic boobs flopping about are ever present, for the sake of historical accuracy.

What makes all of this even more of a drag is the fact that Roland Emmerich is directing this fecal extravaganza. So, in addition to some fake-tanned, blue-eyed whiteys running around like they’re remaking Clan of the Cave Bear or Quest for Fire all while speaking the Queen’s English, Emmerich’s throwing in some oversized CG sabretooth tigers and woolly mammoths. You know, because anyone who saw that kick-ass version of Godzilla he did ten years ago will tell you that computer-generated animals are his forte. Just ask those Narnia-esque wolves from The Day After Tomorrow! They’ll tell you!

Next: The Bank Job

More Kino reviews:
Doomsday

Drillbit Taylor

21

Run, Fatboy, Run
Stop-Loss



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