Feeling like a Boss

The best laid plans never quite catch up with the rest of you, which is why I changed up my Friday post. It was a game time decision, made possible by a cranky back and the worst mob movie I’ve seen since Mamma Mia. 

So Imma quick fix you a Gotti film review, and then Imma follow that up by talking about politics, religion and sex. That’s three taboo subjects and two Imma’s, which is a fairly well rounded post, dont’cha think? And as always, please send any complaints you may have to the following link.

For reals, Gotti is such a waste of time that to offer up a “Spoiler Alert” would be absurd, not to mention hilarious. Hell, to devote an entire post to this flick would be actionable.

GOTTI MOVIE REVIEW: (Because why should I suffer alone?)

Mob movies are like pizza. Even the bad ones possess a come on that green lights your dig. And then there’s Gotti- an hour and fifty two minute enema that is the worst movie idea I’ve had since the WWE produced See No Evil.

John Travolta plays John Gotti, which might’ve seemed like a good idea five minutes after Pulp Fiction but in 2018 feels cartoonish. Evidently, it was a package deal because Travolta’s wife, Kelly Preston, plays Victoria Gotti. And not to be outdone, William DeMeo is cast as Sammy Gravano because of his uncanny resemblance to a rat. Sorry Mama DeMeo . . .

Even if the cast would’ve been up to the task, the concrete boot of a script was fucking misery. It jumped around more than J. Lo’s booty on a roller coaster. I kept waiting for this thing to turn into a musical, or a comedy . . both. Even the fail safe to this epic disaster- the soundtrack- got it wrong.

The Gotti family gave this movie its blessing because it portrays the former boss of bosses in a favorable light. And as a kid who grew up in their Howard Beach neighborhood, I ain’t got a problem with that perspective. Without going all soapbox here, I miss John Gotti and I know he deserved better than this movie gave him. But with all respect, that’s a post that gets made all by its lonesome.

Now on to my trifecta . . .

Politics: I predict Urban Meyers’ Buckeyes squad will be kept out of the college football playoffs, no matter what happens this weekend. The powers that be who run the sport didn’t have the balls to kick his ass to the sidelines for an entire season for aiding and abetting a wife beater, so they’ll hook this crook Sammy Gravano style. Because the NCAA suits ain’t down with the optics of a bad guy like Meyer hoisting their trophy in January, so he won’t. It’s filthy and dirty and entirely political, and oh fucking well. This entire episode is shameful, including all those Ohio State fans who really believe Meyer is the victim here.

Religion: So Bill Maher threw shade at Marvel fans recently, and the internet went Luca Brasi on his ass. Personally, I’m not down with the comic book culture myself and Maher wasn’t dissing Stan Lee in the doing. He was simply marveling (pun alert) at how these fan peeps are more engaged in make believe worlds than the real live one. It’s his opinion, and it doesn’t denigrate the great Stan Lee in the least.  These fan peeps can be a tad pious at times . . .

Sex: I had a week’s worth of turkey sex, and before you sic PETA on my ass, lemme ‘splain. Fucking turkey! Next year, Imma make lasagna. I can reheat that shit for weeks. Because there’s only so much turkey re-purposing a boy can do. I made three different incarnations of turkey salad, because duh. Then there were the turkey tacos (dry), turkey nachos (cheesy) and turkey Reubens (just right). My favorite turkey creation of the week was a Capriotti’s standard called “The Bobbie”. The blueprint is turkey, cranberry and stuffing on a hoagie roll with mayo and gravy. I abstained on the gravy because I wanted to keep things sensible.

The Verdict? Boom met Chicka Boom and they knocked boots with my taste buds. It was a glorious interlude from the spirits of Black Friday deals past and the wrath of credit card bills future.