Alex Cox
Repo Man

I have decided to take my father to court and sue him posthumously (more than forty years after his passing) because he didn't provide me with a little garage to become an ultra-billionaire. Jobs, Gates, Zuckerberg, Bezos, Musk, and the like were lucky enough to have a little garage, tightened a couple of bolts, and became filthy rich, damn it!

But really, do you actually buy into these "stories" of pyramid schemes, you encephalitics that you are? Are you the kind that just says "absolutely" and that's it? But "absolutely" WHAT!!! YES or NO! Do you want to take responsibility and write "especially" WITH FOUR Ts? FOURRR!!! Do you think you can make a freaking career as a potato fryer? SLAVES!

And men are becoming more and more idiots, and women want to look more and more like "men who are more and more idiots" to become, I don't know, CEOs like those pieces of shit of filthy rich executives of this crap. At this point, it makes more sense to give all your money to the Reverend of the moment who swindles your New Age flower child side by promising you a place on the chariots of fire on the road to light. Mouth-to-mouth esotericism, countryside-like, gullible fools. Thank God there's this movie that ridicules the "seriousness" of humanity.

Kudos to the female universe, keep it up, and you'll become more and more un-bangable with your racist suits and selective sluttiness that screws your orgasm making you frigid. Cheers to postwomen, street sweepers, shop assistants, let's see how long they last before they start to "think." Then you get nervous that you've been subconsciously manipulated, and instead of reacting accordingly, you turn into Nazi feminists: WHO CARES ABOUT YOU!

Sherlock Holmes' brother was right with his Diogenes Club where the first rules were "no women allowed & silence": finally someone who truly cares about health. But how do they manage to bust balls so exponentially? There's more femininity in a piece of wood. They are champions to such an extent that if you decided to make your company fail, just make your sales representatives all women, disaster is guaranteed. With that art of discussing acidly about everything, you can shut down in the blink of an eye.

Look in the film at those nice little characters, the one with the metal hand and the "recovery" secretary. Is there a tendency toward matriarchy? And how long can it last with the camaraderie and "collaboration" exchanged among women? Women want blood! In the film, when Otto (Emilio Estevez) leaves, hypnotized by the divine light of the phantom alien car, he instantly dumps the girl who vomits the worst things on him, wishing him to die in the most excruciating pain, torture included. These are violent; they are dangerous... As long as you satisfy them, everything is fine, but as soon as you miss something they inevitably expect, they become beasts.

Meanwhile, the "no racism" campaign has only unleashed without brakes precisely that racism it intends to fight, same with homophobia and all the hysterical and hypocritical anal fair play concocted by the media, and the gratuitously entertaining violence of the film only reflects the loss of reason that has afflicted humanity for ages.
Where did you find your driver's license, in a bag of chips? If you put a saddle on a Chihuahua, it doesn't become a horse...

And all this crap I've written, in my opinion, fits like a glove (and you'll have to swallow it down thanks to the rancid vagina passed by the system) with the punkish logic that the film proposes. Because among rotten aliens hidden in the car trunk, "nobody turns you down," spontaneous combustion, pogo dance, "do you have insurance," scam reverends, 1984 airbags, Dianetics, car air fresheners, "John Wayne was gay," semi-secret services, "shut up Fletcher," electric shocks, lobotomies, and the like, that thing that "the life of us Recovery folks is always great" is a sacrosanct truth that opens to a FLYING EIGHT where the frantic turns communicate that "the damned rich never pay."

An unusual "on the Road" is set up with disingenuous fun, and a raspberry is splendidly delivered by a streetwise, brilliant Harry Dean Stanton: "Damn normal people, I hate them." The overflow of situations finally amuses (and a lot) the bastard part of each of us. Let's take a ride in that Malibu!

"What's in the trunk? It's better if you don't look"...