Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Jaycloptron, activating.

Alter-ego Scott Summers right there, going through serious galactic transformation. Really, wouldn't it be ultra-cool if Jayclops could morph himself into a sleek blue Chevy Camaro and still emit his trademark optic laser via headlights. Maybe I'm really one of the Bots who's taking refuge among the stars. I can hear Optimus Prime sending the message via hardcoded undecipherable signals. Pardon my childish meandering, but that some megatronic hangover right there. Transformers really packs some neat shit and explodes in your face that you can't help but cheer (though discreetly, thanks to the already annoyed lady beside me) like an eight-year old kid and not feel guilty about it. Oh and it's Sha-ya La-Beau. "I gotcha boy!," ensures Optimus, with quirky me hanging on to Allspark and dear life. Sweet. So here's my little eight-year-old take on what I think is the most enjoyable summer blockbies so far.

2 comments:

digitalburyong said...

waaaaah maganda nga raw. pero di ko pa napapanuod. rarrrr. syet hirap ng walang pera. hayayay.

Jap said...

I was excited to see Transformers. I didn't follow the animated series but I was curious how they would look like in CGI. I was amazed by the effects but I was disappointed when they started acting like mascots who could pass for Barney's soldiers of love. Good thing hot chick and entertaining dude were there.

BTW, their depiction of Qatar is nowhere close to reality. The land formation is different. There are no mountains here. And there aren't any scorpion-like robots in the sand either hehehe

=)

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting