Well, the resale value on this spaceship is absolutely f*cked.

Opening Everywhere: Star Trek Into Darkness

Maybe Opening Somewhere: Erased, The English Teacher

FilmDrunk Suggests: I expect Star Trek to be great, and a lot of my dorkier friends who don’t mind being jammed into crowded theaters at midnight told me that it was just that. I just figure that as people are still bitching and moaning about Iron Man 3 that this will be the next to be nitpicked to death. Oh the irony of imperfect people demanding perfection from films. They can’t all be RED.

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This is probably old news for you guys, since parts of this made it into my review of Mr. Angel from SXSW, but with Mr. Angel playing this year’s QDoc: Portland’s Queer Documentary Film Festival, I got to chat with Buck again for the Portland Mercury. Read it if you like!

To say Buck Angel, subject of Dan Hunt’s new documentary Mr. Angel, is “just a regular dude” is both 100 percent true and demonstrably false, which is part of his allure. As seen in Mr. Angel—one of the highlights of this year’s QDoc: Portland’s Queer Documentary Film Festival—Buck is a muscular guy with facial hair and tattoos, as well as female genitalia that he’s not shy about being photographed with. “I love my vagina, don’t you love your vagina?” he famously asked Tyra Banks on an appearance on her show depicted in Mr. Angel. (“I dunno, it’s aiiight, I guess” was her response.)

[check out the rest at the Portland Mercury]

Often times we choose our Florida Friday stories to reflect stories that could seemingly only happen in Florida – getting eating by a gator while running from cops, a police stand-off ending via shark. But today’s Florida Friday story is something that (theoretically) could’ve happened anywhere. Something that forces us to recognize Florida’s inherent humanity. Think of it as a “Florida is just like us” story. I mean, how many times have you been in the middle of an argument with your lover when you realize that the only thing that can properly convey your contempt for her mendacity is a spontaneous blast of hot ass wind? That’s the decision 53-year-old Willie Butler of Immokalee, Florida made this week, though he’d soon live to regret it.

A drunken Florida woman stabbed her boyfriend with an 8-inch blade after he farted in her face during an argument, police say.

Whot we’ve got heeeah, is a FAILURE to communicate.

Deborah Ann Burns, 37, allegedly knifed her lover of six years — Willie Butler, 53 — as they watched television in their Immokalee apartment last week. Burns told cops they were fighting about cash when Butler got up to go to the kitchen and broke wind on her head. She confronted him and things turned ugly.

Hell hath no fury like a woman farted on. Now, here’s where I have to pause the game tape. “She confronted him?” I tend to think that if a person is deliberately farting on another person’s head that the confrontation has long since begun.

— with Butler allegedly throwing a knife at her, which missed. Burns reportedly picked it up and threw it back and hit him in the stomach.

That’s just poetic justice. Assuming your idea of poetry is a drunken knife fight. Which mine is.

She ran outside, before returning to hit him with a stick on his left arm.

You know your woman’s pissed when you have an 8-inch blade sticking out of your gut, and the first thing she thinks to do is run outside to find a stick to hit you with. The normal idiom to indicate adding insult to injury is “twist the knife,” but even that bespeaks an a certain unwillingness to add bludgeoning to the mix.

Cops arrived to find a bleeding Butler, who was so drunk he could not give a statement, standing in front of his mailbox. Burns, who denies cutting Butler, was arrested and charged with aggravated battery with a deadly weapon, reports 14News. |NYDailyNews|

“Agent Broderick Felixson, Special Fart Crimes Unit. I think I can handle things from here.”

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This week on the Frotcast, we bring on one of our favorite guests, San Francisco comedian Matt Lieb (@Lieb123456789), one half of the “Louv it or Lieb it” comedy duo along with Matt Louv. We answer your listener emails, discuss the local comedy scene, wonder what happened to Sinbad, and Matt tells us stories about hanging out with Third Eye Blind’s Stephen Jenkins (which leads to roughly the amount of impromptu singalongs you would expect).

Seriously though, the time flew by, and if you’ve never suggested the Frotcast to a friend, hey, maybe this is the week! Spread the love around!

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In a story that’s been going around the internet for about a day and a half now, Kevin Williamson, a theater columnist for The National Review, is currently being hailed as a hero to anyone who’s ever lacked the balls to shush a fellow theater goer. While attending a performance of the musical Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 this week, he was sitting next to a woman who refused to stop playing with her phone during the show. Eventually he took matters in to his own hands, grabbing the woman’s phone and chucking it towards an open door, never to be seen again. (I say “defenestrates,” because it’s possible it went out a window, and hey, it’s a fun word).

I suppose it should be noted that this whole story came from Williamson himself.

“The main offenders were two parties of women of a certain age, the sad sort with too much makeup and too-high heels, and insufficient attention span for following a two-hour musical. But my date spoke with the theater management during the intermission, and they apologetically assured us that the situation would be remedied. It was not.”

I’m assuming the age he means is 4, but I’ve been watching a lot of Toddlers and Tiaras lately. Gothamist picks up the story from there…

Once the performance resumed, the woman sitting to Williamson’s right on his bench would not, he says, stop using her cell phone. “It looked like she was Googling or something,” Williamson tells us. “So I leaned over and told her it was distracting and told her to put it away. She responded, ‘So don’t look.’ ”

Blood boiling, Williamson says he then asked her, sarcastically, “whether there had been a special exemption for her about not using her phone during the play. She told me to mind my own business, and so I took the phone out of her hands. I meant to throw it out the side door, but it hit some curtains instead. I guess my aim’s not as good as it should be.” Asked if the phone was damaged, Williamson says, “It had to be; I threw it a pretty good distance.”

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Here we have the trailer for Last Vegas, directed by Jon Turteltaub (National Treasure, Sorcerer’s Apprentice) and written by Adam Brooks (Bridget Jones Diary, Practical Magic) and Dan Fogelman (Crazy Stupid Love, Fred Claus), a creative dream team united by their love of collecting easy paychecks. Like all horrible paycheck movies, everything you need to know about it is in the title. Four old guys – Robert Deniro, Michael Douglas, Morgan Freeman, and Kevin Kline – are getting back together for one wild weekend in Vegas for Michael Douglas’s bachelor party, and to the actors’ credit, none of them seem to mind that Al Pacino and Christopher Walken already made this movie like three months ago. Like an uncredited sequel to Michael Haneke’s Amour, it’s an unflinching look at the ravages of Father Time, who’ll gradually take away everything you have, starting with the ability to recognize when a script is patronizing you.

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