Fighters Gotta Fight!
Please, for the love of all that is holy, brace yourselves:



AAAGH!

I apologize. It's probably even early in the morning for some of you, but the subject has to be broached and I couldn't do it without the proper context.

See, I am faced with a puzzle. A riddle. A conundrum. An unfathomable question, posed by a sphinx and spun by a publicist.

There are actually two, one direct and one implied.

The implied one is obvious: holy fuck, what happened to Sylvester Stallone?

That's not hard if we look at the picture. This is what I was talking about in terms of context: just looking at the picture, the answer to that one is clearly that he died in 1978. Since then his public appearances have been strictly a Weekend at Bernie's type of a situation. Which goes a long way toward explaining Judge Dredd. Or Avenging Angelo. Or Assassins. Or fuck, everything he's ever done really except the first Rocky and maybe Tango and Cash and that one only because it's so awful that it had to be some kind of intentional parody. A parody of what, I don't know yet. Kurt Russell movies maybe.

No, the real question to me stems from this:

Stallone's hotel, plane searched in Sydney

Now, the problem isn't that the Australian authorities detained him as soon as his plane touched down. I mean, a living corpse reanimated by the eldritch ass-magic of Jackie Stallone shows up at your doorstep, you want to know about it. Basic self-defense reflex. Like kicking hobos as you walk by them. Natural as breathing, assuming you breathe with steel-toe boots.

The problem is that the Aussie cops (I'm picturing khaki shorts, no shirts, pooka-shell necklaces, flip-flops, can of Foster's) were intrigued enough during the initial inquiries to launch a further investigation into Mr. Stallone and the shit he was into. They searched him, his luggage, his plane, his hotel room and yet nobody will say what they were looking for. Keep in mind this was something obscene and transgressive enough to trouble the Australian police. I can't even imagine what it is you have to do to distract them from their regular schedule of surfing, Aussie-rules football on the telly, kangaroo wrestling and Aborigine-oppressing. The place Dutch people look at as frivolous and licentious was troubled enough by whatever Sly was carrying to finally stop and say "Whoa, that's a step too far, mate."

Or more accurately "Whoa, thit's eh stip tayoo faaah, mite." And then probably whacked him over the head with a boomerang or a didgeridoo or possibly a wombat.

Now it's keeping me up at nights. I mean, what the fuck did Sylvester Stallone have in his luggage?

I try to let it go, but then he says shit like "To (customs) it's major, but it's really minor stuff. I just made a mistake."

Holy fuck, right? Something really bad happened.

What was in his bag? Was it...

non-Australia-certified drugs?

child porn and/or a Dakota Fanning movie?

peanut butter (very protective of their Vegemite monopoly down there)?

a new kidney for Osama bin Laden?

a lagomorph?

rushes for the new Rambo movie?

Burgess Meredith?

The world may never know... but this is/are the internet(s). We are, all of us, ruled by what has become known as "Noonan's Law" which says Is it irresponsible to speculate? It is irresponsible not to.

The only logical answer is that the Australian police, upon cursory inspection, found in Sylvester Stallone's luggage a whole pile of perspective and a sense of age-appropriate good taste. The only assumption they could have made in that instance, judging by his body of work, is that he must have killed someone and stolen it.

The good news is that they can be reasonably sure that they can return it to the family of the deceased completely unusued.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 2.2


Pops

Labels: coriander

- posted by Pops @ 9:14 AM