BOOJUM!: Significantly Less Woeful Today!

For Lo! We Are Back To Darwin Award Winners In Film

Don't sneer, this is a serious analytical endeavour, with rigorous deconstruction of film scripts that ought to know better. Okay, and a bit of mockery with the odd curled lip thrown in for good measure.

Today we are going to cast our hateful stare at that entry into the "Alien" franchise, "Prometheus", which is quite the irony, because the original Prometheus stole fire from the gods <hack spit, monopoly elitists> to bring to mankind, in order that Hom. Sap. could both keep warm and have hot soup*. Art!

This Prometheus, contrarily, almost brought back alien biological weapons to Earth. One would hope that Customs had the nous to prevent them bringing strange and sinister containers full of seething black goo beyond the barriers at "Anything To Declare".

Here an aside. The Engineers in this film leave star maps lying messily across the Galaxy not as an invitation to come visit, but as a selection tool; if your alien race (alien to them, that is) has the smarts to track them down, then you are a potential threat AND WILL BE EXTERMINATED <Dalek voice optional>.

Conrad's craven common-sense counsels caution

Okay, so when our intrepid venturers/foolhardy idiots/light-fingered thieves venture into the giant alien structure, Fifield and Millburn decide to leave the rest of the party and return to Prometheus, whereupon they get lost in the maze of tunnels. Then they stumble upon a dark and sinister chamber and decided to nosy around, just as you would in a haunted house. IF YOU WERE AN IDIOT.

Then up pops the 'Hammerpede', which is a distinctly horrid-looking individual, kind of a snake whose head has been trodden on by an elk. Art!

Distant cousin to the Martian Rock Snake?

Millburn, expedition biologist, who should be able to understand that you do not cuddle up to alien life-forms no matter how lonely you are, then promptly tries to make a pet of it. Art!

Millburn: "Cute!"
Hammerpede: "Dinner!"

Things rapidly go downhill. For the human, that is; our vile alien snake probably thinks it's Christmas after an enforced fast of 1,000 years duration. It wraps itself around the hapless bafoons arm - Art!

Shake

Then it gets inside his suit, and proceeds to kiss him. Er - it looks like a kiss. Probably not that affectionate, really. Art!

"I said no ton -"

And that's the end of stupid old Millburn. We don't see him get the coup de grace, yet we can feel smugly confident that it would be agonising and protracted. Intelligent, just not very clever. I can show you his quickly-cooling carcass. Art!

There you go. An entirely avoidable end. I mentioned haunted houses before; if "Prometheus" had been of that oeuvre, then Millburn would have been the first one to wander off alone into the darkness to seek the source of that strange noise coming from upstairs ...

No motley to taunt today, it's still off in the attic fighting the giant spiders.

"Batwoman" Miracle Occurs, Then Doesn't

If you have been following Conrad's highly-amused mockery of this litany of turgidness, then you know it's viewing figures have gone consistently downwards, which irreversible fall turned around on Sunday, when it made a modest improvement, rising to 552,000 viewers. Too late, however, too late: Jeremy from "The Quartering" was positively gloating over news that has originated from a website called <ahem> "Giant Freaking Robot", namely that the series will be cancelled after Season Three.

Because they paid £100,000,000 for the rights, or something, they (the studio CW) still won't give up on Batwoman and will still inflict her in guest spots on other CW superhero series. Jezza (and Conrad) both suspect that the purported Season Three will be quietly dropped after Season Two ends. "It's in pre-production", "it's in development", "my dog ate the script", "it's being re-imagined" and all sorts of other excuses trotted out until people forget about it.

Betwoman

Turning The Tropes

As you know, Conrad likes to throw in vintage science-fiction magazine covers from the golden age of the pulps. Normally they follow a quite stereotypical outline: square-jawed man wielding ray gun; scantily-dressed attractive young lady (green skin colouring optional); hideous alien monsters, slavering with lust and poised to pounce; a spaceship either the main stage or in the background.

Which is why this one is an interesting inversion. Art!

Attractive young thing?: check. Michael Sheen lookalike strapping lethal blades to her wrists?: check. Ropes in background suggesting a fighting arena similar to that of a boxing ring?: check. Howling mob in the background baying for blood?: check. Note the absence of any gallant rescuer, and that both lady and MC looked quite resigned, as if this is the umpteenth time they have done this.

Toxic Taste Terror!

No! I am not talking about Marmite. Your Humble Scribe likes it, though he rations himself to one cup per week thanks to the very high salt content.

No, I was wondering about a disconcerting question I asked Darling Daughter earlier today. Art!

Which would be the more disgusting, cocoa-flavoured squirrel (see above) or squirrel-flavoured cocoa? Furthermore, imagine that this taste test takes place unawares, so your taste buds are the first to encounter said cuisine. Myself, I would reckon CFS, as I am not a fan of All Things Chocolate-flavoured, because it would be extremely disconcerting.

Squirrel-flavoured cocoa, on the other hand, is far more likely to taste like Marmite, which is where we came in.

Perhaps the squirrels only taste like that thanks to a glaze or coating, so you could scrape it off and enjoy pure wholesome roast squirrel**.

Finally -

At least they got footage ..... Another Honourable Mention when it comes to Darwin Awards. A South Canadian couple in Massachusetts were having a 'gender reveal' party, the poseurs way of saying "It's a Boy/Girl!" and an excuse for a party. Their plan was to release a rocket in the appropriate colour; pink for a girl, blue for a boy. These rockets shoot 30 feet into the air, so they have a fair bit of velocity. Conrad unsure what the mass of the smoke is as it departs the cannon, which wouldn't have been a problem if Dad-to-be wasn't holding the cannon UPSIDE DOWN. Art!