A Copywriter’s Blog
Satan needs a space heater Ben Levy 2, February

This post may have kicked off an entire category on BrokenJPG that’s produced some of my most popular rants. But make no mistake- I was using humor as a defense against the horrible, mind-searing agony of the monumental fuck-fest that was the first live-action GI Joe movie.

It still stands as one of the shittiest piles of excrement to ever get squeezed out of Hollywood. It didn’t have to be the greatest film of all time. It just had to be campy. Or have over-the-top action. Or avoid putting an entire generation’s beloved childhood heroes into fucking mech suits like some kind of anime fan-fiction.

But the live-action GI Joe film failed all these things. It failed them so badly that even though I didn’t ever see this crapfest, when the trailer for the second came around, I called it shit again. My friends told me I was wrong, that ninja’s fighting on the side of a cliff was pretty damn awesome. But my eyes were blinded by the stinging remains of the feces from years past. I would not- nay, I could not- take a chance. Some trauma is too deep.

But then, this morning, I saw this.

That is a trailer that starts out with Dwayne The Rock/Roadblock Johnson quoting Jay Z. And then using the song that was just quoted as the soundtrack. Which includes ninjas shooting bullets at shuriken, ninjas stabbing other ninjas on the side of a cliff, and Bruce Willis shooting a machine gun out the back of a pickup.

Do you hear that, dear readers? That’s the sound of my cold, blackened heart beginning to beat once more. Am I scared? Terrified. Would I have thought it possible that I would even consider seeing the sequel of the cinematic sin that launched a thousand (or, like, ten) angry posts? No, I would not.

But that looks like a great “bad” movie. And that’s all we ever needed it to be.

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I had intended to write a review of the Thundercats reboot last week. But watching the premiere was a near coitus-like experience, and as soon as it was over I fell into a contented sleep and only just woke up.

(That means I liked it.)

Warning: if anyone reading this is concerned about minor spoilers or preposterous sexual metaphors, you shouldn’t keep reading.

I said before that I was cautiously optimistic about this reboot, but I didn’t expect this. This… was like an orgasm accompanied by the trumpets of angels. An angelgasm, if you will.

Artist's conception of an Angelgasm

Artist's conception of an Angelgasm

The best reboots update a nostalgic memory with something awesome enough to please your adult palette as well. Like being able to smell your mom’s chocolate chip cookies baking during an orgy.

The trick of course, is that you obviously don’t want your mom to be the one doing the baking, cause that’ll ruin the sex. And you can’t just buy cookies from the store, because there’s nothing nostalgic about that at all.

That’s what’s making me so happy about this reboot- these are definitely my Thundercats. They look similar, sound similar, and behave similarly to the Thundercats of my youth. Lion-O is an overconfident child, Cheetara rescues him in the knick of time, and WileyKit and Kat cause trouble.

In other words, the cookies smell just like I remember them.

And to compliment the cookies, the sex I mean plot: A brilliant explanation of why Cheetara runs impossibly fast and hits people with sticks. Snarf as blessedly mute comic relief. A backstory setting up technology as a semi-mythical thing no one believes in until a group of mechs show up and knock down the walls.

Having just included robots and pokemon rejects in my orgy, I confess the metaphor breaks down slightly at this point. Consider it proof of how difficult it is to get a reboot right.


There were one or two things that I missed. Jagga’s sacrifice didn’t seem anywhere near as emotional as it did the first time, and I really miss the origin story of the 80s version. Not that this one is bad. I just consider that one high art.

But these are my Thundercats. And when the Sword of Omens is held on high, the smile on my face is best described as “shit-eating”, and my ecstasy reaches a peak best described as… as… as…


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Smurf You, Hollywood. Ben Levy 18, April

Perhaps you have heard about, or been afflicted by, the trailer for the new Smurfs movie coming out. If not, I’m sorry to do this to you:

Screen shot 2011-04-18 at 11.17.05 AM

Their expressions accurately reflect my own.

At this point, I would normally launch into a hate-fueled rant against Hollywood’s latest thinly-veiled attempt to cash in on nostalgia. But I felt this deserved something special. So before you go any further, please begin playing this video. Then sing along with me:

(sung to the tune of “Fuck You” by Cee Lo Green)

I see your movie remake,
of a show I knew and I’m like
“Smurf You”.
Oo, oo, oo
You saw the bills in my wallet,
Want them for yours, I’m like,
Smurf You!
Smurf you blue!
You wanna be richer, so you made a big picture
Ha, now ain’t that some smurf? (ain’t that some smurf)
And although there’s pain in my chest
You’ll still profit I bet, so….
Smurf You!
Oo, oo, oo

You won’t get no glory, from ripping off a story,
That we all watched when we were eight.
It takes more than 3D, for you to sell me
So all you’ll get from me is hate.

I wish there were rules, against reboots done by fools
(3D won’t fix issues)
(don’t even try that excuse)
You can write this one down too-
ACT1, SCENE 1: Go smurf yourself.


I know it’s hard to, write a new script
But that don’t mean you should rape these shows.
Hoping to fake it, you’ll never make it
Cause even your preview trailer blows.

I’d rather be reamed, than see this farce on screen.
(3D won’t fix issues)
(don’t even try that excuse)
You can write this one down too-
I really hate yo ass right now.

Pause the song. Imagine the sound of a record scratch. Music stops, singer breaks the fourth wall and addresses the camera:

No really, I hate you. What the hell is your problem? Look, I’m fine with introducing the next generation to the Smurfs, but these things don’t even look like them. It’s like you applied a blue filter to a movie about garden gnomes. Even the fucking chipmunk movie looked kind of like the chipmunks. Do you understand what I’m saying? YOUR MOVIE IS ALREADY WORSE THAN THE CHIPMUNKS! AND IT’S NOT EVEN OUT YET!

Music starts up again and singer breaks into the chorus as though nothing happened. You may begin the song again.


Now Holly- holly- Hollywood, now what the hell can we do with you?
(with you, with you, with you)

If you were just one person I would force you
to commit seppuku.
(seppuku, seppuku, seppuku)
Like “Stab! Slice. Uh! Slice. Uh.”
It’s over! Oh!
I hate you. Oh!
I so hate you! Oh!

(Last Chorus)
I see your movie remake,
of a show I knew and I’m like
“Smurf You”.
Oo, oo, oo
You saw the bills in my wallet,
Want them for yours, I’m like,
Smurf You!
Smurf you blue!
You wanna be richer, so you made a big picture
Ha, now ain’t that some smurf? (ain’t that some smurf)
And although there’s pain in my chest
You’ll still profit I bet, so….
Smurf You!
Oo, oo, oo

“SMURF You” written by Ben Levy, with apologies to, well, everyone.

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I love that I no longer have a car, even if it means I no longer get to write posts like this one. I love the fact that once I get on the train, someone else drives me to work for an hour each day, and I get to read a book. There’s just one catch. The train is full of people.

Now listen, it’s not that I hate people. Well, it’s not just that I hate them. I mean, I totally do. In fact, I’ve been thinking of putting it in the WTF, just so there’s no confusion. No what it is, is the fact that you slimy, mucus-excreting, bacteria crucibles don’t know how to cover your gdammed mouths when you sneeze.

My wife is a doctor. A pediatric resident. That means she sees kids. Sick kids. All day, every day. And then she comes home and hugs me. Do you know how many times, since medical school, we’ve been able to trace a cold I caught to her work? Maybe twice.

She works in an environment where they catch this “everything and the kitchen sink” variety of illness they term “pede-rot” and make fun of the fact that they’ll all catch MERSA, which is an acronym that loosely translates into “super virus culled from the dark necrotic pit of the devourer of worlds, which will slowly disassemble your body from the inside out”. But I’ve avoided them all.

But you. You festering pot of barely evolved protoplasm. One fucking sneeze. One nose wipe with your stupid fucking fingerless gloves which you then rub all over the subway car pole like a penniless stripper who has to make rent by 9am tomorrow. You manage to do me in every winter.

And they’re not bacteria, explains The doctor Wife, no no. These are viruses. Can’t do anything about viruses. We can cure testicular cancer with a 98% rate of success now, but we can’t clear your left nostril. Now come here and give me a hug.

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If it were up to me, there would only be two movie genres: Action and Comedy. Watching the news for 5 seconds will prove to anyone that there is more than enough horrible, terrifying, depressing shit going on in the Real World as it is. I see no reason why I should pay money to spend 90+ minutes subjecting myself to more of it in a theater. Which is why, when The Wife brought home “Hachiko, A Dog’s Story” I told her I didn’t want to watch it.

That’s because a better title for this film would have been “Hachiko: The Cure for Happiness.” Let me share with you the official trailer.

A few observations about what you’ve just seen:

1. You can tell the trailer just explained the entire story of the film. All of it.
2. It is depressing as fuck.

That was the entire film. The whole thing. I will now sum up this honey-where-do-we-keep-the-sleeping-pills-I-need-to-OD-on-them story for you in two sentences: A man’s dog loved him so much that every day it waited at the train station for him to get home from work. Then one day he died, and it kept waiting for him for ten more years.

I have communicated this to you in two sentences. The trailer has shown you all of it in two minutes (and with decent editing could have done it in one). THE MOVIE DRAGS IT OUT FOR 90 MINUTES.

The worst part was, I knew what would happen. The guy was going to die. The dog was going to be more depressed than a hobo who just discovered they make non-alcoholic mouthwash. But it doesn’t happen at first. No. The film spends the better part of an hour showing you how much the dog loves it’s owner.

At this point, you have to ask yourself if this movie is the work of Satan. Do it’s creators derive sustenance from the torment of depressed souls? If so, every viewing of this film must feed all the demons in hell for a thousand years.

And just when it’s dragged on so long that you think maybe you’ve misinterpreted the trailer in some way and the guy actually lives- he dies.

And the dog can’t understand why he doesn’t come home.

It may interest you to know that I have trouble crying. This is not a macho thing I’m making up to impress you. It’s just a fact. There have been times where I have wanted to cry, times where crying would have been appropriate, and I have been unable to do so. From the time this fictional character dies, until the end of the movie, I CRIED FOR 45 MINUTES STRAIGHT.

Forty. Five. Fucking. Minutes. I am in advertising, ok? I have written scripts with montages that had to show the birth, life, and death of a human being in five seconds. The soulless assgoblins who directed this dog-lover’s nightmare went and dragged out the canine’s heartbroken, lonely existence for forty-five minutes.

You might think the moral of the story is that the dog eventually moved on, and rediscovered love in the family it’s owner left behind. You might think this is some story about how the whole town adopted the dog as their own- how they took him in and sheltered him. You might even think that maybe it turns out there was some big mistake and the guy wasn’t dead after all he just went out to get milk and then his car broke down and his GPS battery died and he got really really lost before hitting his head and getting amnesia and hey it’s all right now boy I found you at last and we can go play fetch in the yard.

None of that happened. The guy died. The dog waited ten years for him to show up at the train station. Then the dog died.

I bet you’re fairly depressed now, aren’t you? Maybe you do what I do when something in a movie scares or upsets you- you tell yourself it’s not real. Remind yourself they’re just actors. Think about how as soon as that scene ended somebody yelled “Cut!” and everyone clapped and then opened obscenely large checks before jumping into their limos and heading off to do really expensive drugs at the wrap party. That’s what The Wife was telling me to think of when the screen went black.

Some white words appeared. They say that Hachiko was a real dog. They tell you the date he was born, and the name of his owner. They tell you the year his owner died, and how he went and sat at the same spot at a train station in Japan for the next nine years, waiting for his owner until he died. And then they show you the bronze statue that was erected in the spot he always sat in. The real statue that’s still there today. At the real train station. Commemorating the real dog.

So I hope you weren’t just feeling better about yourself. Cause everything you just saw and felt was totally justified. It was a true g-damned story. If anyone needs a razor to slit their wrists, you can borrow mine. It’s only been used once.

And when the coroner rules my death a suicide, you tell him to arrest The Wife on charges of murder. I told her no, but she made me watch that damn film. Because she’s trying to kill me.

I’m not watching another movie for the rest of my life unless it contains at least 12 explosions during the opening credits or a fat man slipping on a banana peel. Preferably both.

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Hallmark is Trying to Kill Me Ben Levy 14, February

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I explained last year how I feel about this holiday. Short version: not a fan.

But sellers of chocolate and some dead Christian dude demand that on February 14th I make certain overtures to The Wife. So a few days ago I went to get a card.

There were aisles of these things. Rows upon rows of pink, red, reddish-pink, and pinkish-red. And they all, without exception, sucked.

I don’t mean they were bad. No, no. Bad would be an improvement. I mean they flat-out reeked. There must have been about 200 cards there. But really, there were only three:

“Funny” Cards
Front of card: [Sexual Innuendo]
Inside of card: [HAHA, I bet you thought I was talking about sex, but really I meant something completely non-sexual. It's funny because you were wrong!]

Front of card: “This valentine’s day, I thought we could try a new position”
Inside of card: Couple watching TV while sitting upside down on the couch. (This is real. It exists. This one hurt so bad when I saw it that it seared itself into my brain and I’ve been having ‘Nam-like flashbacks ever since.)

“Heartfelt” Cards
Front of card: [Some mush so diabetes-inducingly sweet it would embarrass the writer of a Harlequin Romance novel.]
Inside of card: [Blank. Fucking blank. Because clearly after the profession of love and emotion you just read, no further words are necessary. You get to pay full price for half a card.]

Front of card: My soulmate, this Valentine’s Day we will share chocolate strawberries and bubbling champagne, but what really sustains me is your endless love.
Inside of card: (What you need more? Read the front again, that shit was amazing!)

Rhyming Cards
Front of card: [A rhyme. Not a good one.]
Inside of card: [Happy Valentine's Day!]

Front of card: “Nothing says ‘love’ like a card that rhymes/ Dear Hallmark, please fucking get with the times.”
Inside of card: “Wasn’t that rhyme awesome?! Happy Valentine’s Day!”

And there you have it. That was it. That was the entire 200 card “selection”.

Listen. Hallmark. I know I’m a writer. I know that makes me extra critical. And I know that makes it a little unfair of me to say I could do better in my sleep. (And by “sleep” I mean “while experiencing a medically-induced coma”.) But presumably you employ writers of your own. Ones who specialize in this “craft”. I mean, for the love of shit, you practically MADE UP this holiday. Can’t you do any better than “SEXUAL INNUENDO- JUST KIDDING! LOL!”?

You know, I actually looked through those the most. And here’s why- I was secretly hoping to find the one card that said “Hey Baby, this Valentine’s Day, let’s get busy”. Then on the inside: “No, seriously- it’s Valentine’s Day, you pretty much have to have sex with me. Start stripping.”

That card would have been fucking awesome. I know it’s not for everyone. But you have an audience of millions. Stretch a little. You can’t tell me your writers go home satisfied and hand these things to their wives and girlfriends. Who the hell wants to hand their loved-one a poem that sounds like it was written by a 2nd grader? “Oh my sweet/ you’re so neat/have some candy hearts to eat.” The only benefit is it makes whatever you do next seem fucking amazing: “Oh honey, a ball of dryer lint? You shouldn’t have! This is so much better than the card you just gave me!”

Fuck you, Hallmark. Fuck you and the vomit-inducing cliches you rode in on. I tried to end the pain by slitting my wrists with your crappy cards, but after 20 minutes I had nothing to show for it besides an arm covered in red and pink glitter. So next year, do me a favor:

Either stop writing shit lines, or invest in heavier card stock.

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Humanity is trying to kill me. Ben Levy 17, January

A week ago today, ran an article stating that thousands of people were depressed after seeing Avatar. Because real life couldn’t compare to it.

Let me say two things to start with.

First, Avatar is a beautiful movie. Visually, it raises the bar for film. It is our generations’ Star Wars, replacing Cinnabun hairdos and walking shag carpets with elongated Smurfs and braids that have planetary ethernet cables.


Second, this article might very well be a hoax. A piece of marketing specifically calculated to get everyone talking about the movie for an extra week. If so, bravo sirs. You managed to get me to blog about it. But not before looking into gene splicing as a way to forever separate myself from the vomit-inducing shame-spiral of deplorableness that is humanity.

Even if it is a hoax, I am fully prepared to believe it’s true. That’s the sad part. It almost doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not. (I say “almost” because if these people do exist, they need to be rounded up, escorted into spaceships, and shot into the sun as soon as possible.) Regardless, the fact is that our species has sunk to a level where the statements in this article aren’t even a stretch.


What the very existence of this forum thread named “Ways to cope with the depression of the dream of Pandora being intangible” means, is that there are thousands of people on our planet right now who feel that sitting in the dark for two and a half hours is a more vivacious experience then taking a walk. It feels more real. Some advice for these people, and I mean this in all seriousness: please consider all the sensory impressions you get walking from a dark theater, through the parking lot, back to your car.

I really want you all to try this. Listen to the crunch of the gravel and broken glass beneath your dirty white tennis shoes. Inhale deeply, and smell the heady aroma of I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Called-Butter popcorn coming from the theater behind you. Feel the way your spine twists and shatters as I run over you with my car. Take it all in. That’s reality you’re feeling. In a second you’ll feel some more of it as I back up over you.

Humanity claims to rule this planet, yet damn near none of us could survive without a roof over our heads for more than two days. And I mean in the middle of New York. If you air-dropped us Bear Grylls style into the Amazon, we’d make it just long enough to discover our iPhones didn’t get wi-fi before tripping over an exposed root and impaling ourselves on poisonous tree frogs or something. So why should I expect those same masses to be able to distinguish between reality and some bright lights?


Always before I’ve blamed Hollywood. They have mocked my childhood by building multi-million dollar, 200 minute-long dildos to shove up the ass of every 80s show I ever loved. Repeatedly. And I screamed at them. I ranted. I refused to pay even one cent to see these reborn abortions. But perhaps I owe Hollywood an apology.

If there are really are thousands of so-called people who feel that a Ferngully remake is more real than my fist hitting them repeatedly in the face, maybe I should give Hollywood a break. After all, there are millions of idiots who pay for this crap. They make it profitable. Perhaps Hollywood isn’t really to blame. Maybe, just this once, I should apologize.

Of course, those fucktards got in a bidding war over the rights to the Atari game Asteroids. A bidding war.

I’ll agree with those azure-obsessed, movie-masturbating, mouth-breathers on one point. I fucking hate this planet.

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But it won’t work. I’m on to you. After this, this, and this, I can spot your attempts to skullfuck the last remaining vestiges of my happy childhood memories from a mile away.

I’ll give you some credit, though. When I first heard you insidious franchise-fucking money whores had started filming an A-Team movie, I thought I knew what to expect. I was ready for the post to practically write itself.


But then I found an photo of Liam Neeson in costume, and he was the spitting image of Hannibal. And then I read it was being directed by Joe Carnahan, of Smoking Aces fame. How proud you must have been, Hollywood. I can see you steepling your fingers in a dark room and laughing to yourself. “He’ll totally buy it,” you cackle, as you chew on newborn children while their mothers watch, and think up new ways to ruin the Transformers franchise, “he’ll be too intrigued to hate the film. He’ll see too much potential.”


It almost worked too. I was ready to believe. I was fresh off Inglorious Basterds and District 9, and I told myself that maybe, just maybe, the A-Team movie wouldn’t be that bad.

Then I woke the hell up.

Smoking Aces was a thing of beauty. And Liam Neeson can be funny if you’re a little drunk and he’s not playing a dad. But neither of them are A-Team material. You’re not making the A-Team. You’re making a cinematic sin.

Your mistake, Hollywood, the thing that really proved to me that you were going to beat to death one more of my childhood loves with a phallus-shaped baseball bat, was this: UFC fighter “Rampage” Jackson as B.A. Barracus.


Mr. T isn’t dead, you sniveling, spineless, slack-jawed, mouth-breathing, twats. I defy you to tell me what the hell is wrong with casting him as (essentially) himself. Not a damn thing, that’s what. I know this movie isn’t really about the A-Team. It’s about some fuckwit who wasn’t smart enough to craft an original premise, so you just bought the rights to an old TV show and prayed that enough people would love the franchise to see it no matter how horribly you mangled the plot. But if you really want to bring in the hordes, why didn’t you morons at least get the single most memorable person from the original show? This could have been the Return of the Teletubbies in 3-D, but if it had Mr. T, being Mr. T, I’d have gone to see it. Twice. Now? You have nothing but my unrequited rage.

The only thing that would save this movie now is if the whole thing was a publicity stunt. Halfway through the advertising campaign, we discover that this movie is a plot to discredit the original A-Team, and they all reunite, jump in the van, and start busting the heads of every Hollywood dipshit responsible for this mess. That movie I would see (along with Mr. T and the Teletubbies).

But then, that was my fevered prayer for the GI Joe movie as well, and look how that turned out.

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Q: What’s the worst joke you can tell someone, only it’s not a joke and when they realize you’re serious the laughter dies in their throat almost as quickly as their will to live?
A: Will Smith is re-making the Karate Kid.


This is not the first time the entertainment industry has tried to murder me via coronary by retroactively destroying my childhood. There was that Shite Rider crap. And the GI Joe movie (more on that in a few days). But this may be their master stroke.

This time they’re not content to simply exhume and anally violate one of the cornerstones of my childhood. No, this time they’ve conned one of the few actors I respect(ed) into doing it. They’ve discovered how to sodomize both my past and present simultaneously. If we’re lucky the resulting black hole from bending the space/time continuum this way will destroy us all before their plans are complete. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just smother myself in honey and hit bears with a baseball bat. Anything to lessen the pain.

I’m going to be honest here. This was not a bad idea because Jackie Chan is on board, and he’s old. It’s not a bad idea because supposedly the kid travels to China and learns Kung Fu, which isn’t fucking Karate you damned ignorant fucktards. It’s a horrible, flawed, embarrassingly bad idea because the entire premise behind Karate Kid is simply retarded.


I loved the Karate Kid. We all did. We all really, really wanted to believe that we could learn martial arts from some diminutive foreigner who was probably in the country illegally and start kicking bully’s asses left and right. I don’t know about you, but when I was ten, that was the American Dream.

And back then, it worked. It was a good movie. But -and I’m serious here- it only worked because we were idiots.

Listen to me Will Smith, or whoever is controlling the Will Smith robot suit that’s giving the orders- that was a simpler time. We all believed that painting fences and sanding floors might actually turn us into deadly fighting machines. It’s because we were stupid.

We’ve got the internet now. We’ve got the UFC. We know what real fighting looks like. And we know the truth is that if Daniel-son had gone into a real tournament, he would have been choking down his own excrement inside of 30 seconds. If repetitive motion automatically granted martial prowess, every right-handed male from the age of 11 and up would be kicking ass like Bruce Lee. (The lefties would be doing it mirrored) But that’s just not the way it works.


At the time, it was great. But we’re talking about a generation of kids who- and I’m including myself in this- honestly went home after seeing the movie and practiced the Crane Kick in the mirror. I mean we really fucking considered it for a minute. I have a tiny bit of experience in the martial arts, and I can promise if you tried to pull that shit in a fight the only reason it would work is because your opponent might laugh so hard that they rupture something. My point is that the film was great for it’s time. Leave it as a warm, fuzzy memory of a simpler time in our lives. You really can’t make this one cool again.

And as for you, Will Smith- No. NO. Bad, Will Smith. Very bad Will Smith. You go sit in the corner and think about what you’re potentially going to have done.

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NBC is trying to kill me Ben Levy 13, August

I must have been an axe-murderer in a former life. Maybe a child-molester. Clearly I’ve done something horrible. And Fate, not finding a suitable punishment for me in the present-day, has decided to destroy the last fond memories I have from my childhood.

Dear reader, I apologize for what you are about to see: a grown man’s warm youthful memories, callously used as the kleenex for NBC’s programming ejaculate.

What they have done is create the Anti-Rider. This is the perfect antithesis of all that was good about the show. I won’t even discuss the plot here, for fear of spontaneously combusting through sheer hate. Suffice it to say there’s deeper writing in teletubbies porn (never mind how I know, shut up). But look- NBC has graciously found a way to sum up this travesty for me:

KITT happens? KITT happens? Oh fuck you. Seriously, bring me the writer and/or studio executive who thought that was a good idea, and I will gouge their eyes out. With a blunt shovel. That I have dipped in whale urine. And set on fire.

The worst part about this is what they’ve done to KITT. I would have thought a car would be impervious to this sort of career-suicide. I mean, sure he did that stint with Hoff in Germany, but it could have been worse. It’s not like he drove himself drunk. But clearly I underestimated the geniuses at NBC. They couldn’t come up with a good catch-phrase, but they did discover a way to destroy the last shreds of dignity for another of my childhood icons:

What the fuck is that? Why does it have three dicks on its hood? Is it for an automotive bukkake scene? Because that would actually make more sense than the rest of the shit you’ve shoved up KITT’s tailpipe. Did you have to chop it up worse than Joan Rivers’s face? Even if it was based off a 1982 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, the real KITT would still be the baddest car on the road today. Oh you’ve got fucking flame decals? He’s got g-damned LAZERS. Which he can use to set your car on actual fire, douchebag. This is not a common list of standard fucking features.

Now listen to me very carefully NBC. Very. VERY. Carefully. There is still a way to salvage all of this. It’s not too late. If you follow my directions to the letter:

Do exactly what you’re doing. Keep the PR machine rolling. Fuck it up even more, I don’t care. Play the first episode. Then, 5 minutes in, have the real KITT burst onto the set, destroying everyone and everything for the next 40 minutes. Sets will burn from his flamethrowers, lazers will punch through the grips and cameramen. In the climactic ending, he’ll launch into the air from a turbo boost, and pop the director’s head under his tires as he lands. Then the camera will zoom in on that one, scrolling LED and he’ll say. “You didn’t really think I’d let them get away with this, did you Ben?”

Then he’d open the door, I’d jump in, and we’d ride off into the sunset. Dun-dada-dun. Dun-dada-dun. Dun-dadadaDA-Dunnnnnnn. Da-dun!

But if it doesn’t happen exactly like that, every NBC exec who’s responsible for this should be corn-holed by a rusty tailpipe.