Dude Movie Quotes

Take care of your costume and your confidence will take care of itself.

You don't know me, dude," he says, not smiling this time. Gonzo examines his cards, prepping for his next move. "People always think that they know other people, but they don't. Not really. I mean, maybe they know things about them, like they won't eat doughnuts or they like action movies or whatever. But they don't know what their friends do in their rooms alone at night or what happened to them when they were kids or if they feel ****ed up for no reason at all.

With right fashion, every female would be a flame.

Fashion doesn't make you perfect, but it makes you pretty.

It's time to shop high heels if your fiance kisses you on the forehead.

From Jess: FANG. I've commented your blog with my questions for THREE YEARS. You answer other people's STUPID questions but not MINE. YOU REALLY ASKED FOR IT, BUDDY. I'm just gonna comment with this until you answer at least one of my questions. DO YOU HAVE A JAMAICAN ACCENT? No, Mon DO YOU MOLT? Gross. WHAT'S YOUR STAR SIGN? Dont know. "Angel what's my star sign?" She says Scorpio. HAVE YOU TOLD JEB I LOVE HIM YET? No. DOES NOT HAVING A POWER MAKE YOU ANGRY? Well, that's not really true... DO YOU KNOW HOW TO DO THE SOULJA BOY? Can you see me doing the Soulja Boy? DOES IGGY KNOW HOW TO DO THE SOULJA BOY? Gazzy does. DO YOU USE HAIR PRODUCTS? No. Again,no. DO YOU USE PRODUCTS ON YOUR FEATHERS? I don't know that they make bird kid feather products yet. WHAT'S YOU FAVORITE MOVIE? There are a bunch WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE SONG? I don't have favorites. They're too polarizing. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE SMELL? Max, when she showers. DO THESE QUESTIONS MAKE YOU ANGRY? Not really. IF I CAME UP TO YOU IN A STREET AND HUGGED YOU, WOULD YOU KILL ME? You might get kicked. But I'm used to people wanting me dead, so. DO YOU SECRETLY WANT TO BE HUGGED? Doesn't everybody? ARE YOU GOING EMO 'CAUSE ANGEL IS STEALING EVERYONE'S POWERS (INCLUDING YOURS)? Not the emo thing again. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE FOOD? Anything hot and delicious and brought to me by Iggy. WHAT DID YOU HAVE FOR BREAKFAST THIS MORNING? Three eggs, over easy. Bacon. More Bacon. Toast. DID YOU EVEN HAVE BREAKFAST THIS MORNING? See above. DID YOU DIE INSIDE WHEN MAX CHOSE ARI OVER YOU? Dudes don't die inside. DO YOU LIKE MAX? Duh. DO YOU LIKE ME? I think you're funny. DOES IGGY LIKE ME? Sure DO YOU WRITE DEPRESSING POETRY? No. IS IT ABOUT MAX? Ahh. No. IS IT ABOUT ARI? Why do you assume I write depressing poetry? IS IT ABOUT JEB? Ahh. ARE YOU GOING TO BLOCK THIS COMMENT? Clearly, no. WHAT ARE YOU WEARING? A Dirty Projectors T-shirt. Jeans. DO YOU WEAR BOXERS OR BRIEFS? No freaking comment. DO YOU FIND THIS COMMENT PERSONAL? Could I not find that comment personal? DO YOU WEAR SUNGLASSES? Yes, cheap ones. DO YOU WEAR YOUR SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT? That would make it hard to see. DO YOU SMOKE APPLES, LIKE US? Huh? DO YOU PREFER BLONDES OR BRUNETTES? Whatever. DO YOU LIKE VAMPIRES OR WEREWOLVES? Fanged creatures rock. ARE YOU GAY AND JUST PRETENDING TO BE STRAIGHT BY KISSING LISSA? Uhh... WERE YOU EXPERIMENING WITH YOUR SEXUALITY? Uhh... WOULD YOU TELL US IF YOU WERE GAY? Yes. DO YOU SECRETLY LIKE IT WHEN PEOPLE CALL YOU EMO? No. ARE YOU EMO? Whatever. DO YOU LIKE EGGS? Yes. I had them for breakfast. DO YOU LIKE EATING THINGS? I love eating. I list it as a hobby. DO YOU SECRETLY THINK YOU'RE THE SEXIEST PERSON IN THE WHOLE WORLD? Do you secretly think I'm the sexiest person in the whole world? DO YOU EVER HAVE DIRTY THOUGHTS ABOUT MAX? Eeek! HAS ENGEL EVER READ YOUR MIND WHEN YOU WERE HAVING DIRTY THOUGHT ABOUT MAX AND GONE "OMG" AND YOU WERE LIKE "D:"? hahahahahahahahahahah DO YOU LIKE SPONGEBOB? He's okay, I guess. DO YOU EVER HAVE DIRTY THOUGHT ABOUT SPONGEBOB? Definitely CAN YOU COOK? Iggy cooks. DO YOU LIKE TO COOK? I like to eat. ARE YOU, LIKE, A HOUSEWIFE? How on earth could I be like a housewife? DO YOU SECRETLY HAVE INNER TURMOIL? Isn't it obvious? DO YOU WANT TO BE UNDA DA SEA? I'm unda da stars. DO YOU THINK IT'S NOT TOO LATE, IT'S NEVER TOO LATE? Sure. WHERE DID YOU LEARN TO PLAY POKER? TV. DO YOU HAVE A GOOD POKER FACE? Totally. OF COURSE YOU HAVE A GOOD POKER FACE. DOES IGGY HAVE A GOOD POKER FACE? Yes. CAN HE EVEN PLAY POKER? Iggy beats me sometimes. DO YOU LIKE POKING PEOPLE HARD? Not really. ARE YOU FANGALICIOUS? I could never be as fangalicious as you'd want me to be. Fly on, Fang

Any girl with a grin never looks grim.

Well, you're not a man because you like football and you're not a woman because you're attracted to men and you're not a chick because you like to be the one who gives and you're not a dude because you like to receive or because sometimes you cry at dumb movies.

The way to get a babe to act in a blue movie is you offer her a million dollars. The way to get a dude is you just have to ask him.

Fucking NASA. In a horror movie, when everyone is hugging their shins and shouting for the main character to turn and run, or crawl under the bed, or call the cops, or grab a gun, NASA would be the dude in the back shouting, “Go see what made that noise! And take a flashlight!

Dresses don't look beautiful on hangers.

You cannot choose your face but you can choose your dress.

I expected the members of Earth’s leading society of villains to be smarter,” I said. “I don’t know why.” “They’re smarter in movies and books.” “They would have to be, wouldn’t they?” Morrison said. “In the real world, they can be what people like them usually are: a bunch of dudes born into money who used that money to take advantage of other people to make even more money. It works great until they start believing that being rich makes them smart, and then they get in trouble.

But I’m going to need you to love me on the bus, dude. And first thing in the morning. Also, when I’m drunk and refuse to shut up about getting McNuggets from the drive-thru. When I fall asleep in the middle of that movie you paid extra to see in IMAX. When I wear the flowered robe I got at Walmart and the sweatpants I made into sweatshorts to bed. When I am blasting “More and More” by Blood Sweat & Tears at seven on a Sunday morning while cleaning the kitchen and fucking up your mom’s frittata recipe. When I bring a half dozen gross, mangled kittens home to foster for a few nights and they shit everywhere and pee on your side of the bed. When I go “grocery shopping” and come back with only a bag of Fritos and five pounds of pork tenderloin. When I’m sick and stumbling around the crib with half a roll of toilet paper shoved in each nostril. When I beg you fourteen times to read something I’ve written, then get mad when you tell me what you don’t like about it and I call you an uneducated idiot piece of shit. Lovebird city.

Dresses won't worn out in the wardrobe, but that is not what dresses are designed for.

A bunch of girls stuck forks all over my front yard last year, and then one mooned us while running away. I shit you not, dudes.’ 

Just wait, dude," Jamie had said. "I'm serious. It's fucking hard-core." Since Jamie described everything from zombie movies to his parents' fights to the new enchilada platter at Taco John's as "fucking hard-core," none of us could gauge much by it.

In a horror movie, when everyone is hugging their shins and shouting for the main character to turn and run, or crawl under the bed, or call the cops, or grab a gun, NASA would be the dude in the back shouting, “Go see what made that noise! And take a flashlight!

He bumped Casey’s shoulder. “Thanks, dude.” “For what?” “Letting me be filmed naked in your bed-and-breakfast.” “You know what? I honestly thought I’d hear that sentence from you sooner or later. No big deal, man.

Doctors know nothing. Well. That's kind of unfair. Let's just say the world is unpredictable. Science is unreliable. It can't tell you who you are or what you'll want or how you'll feel. All these researchers are going crazy in their labs, trying to fit us into these little boxes so they can justify their jobs, or their government funding, or their life's work. They can theorize and they can give you a mean, median and mode but it's all standardized guesswork, made official by arrogance. You have to be pretty into yourself to think you can play a part in defining the identity of a bunch of people you don't know, of human beings with complicated shit going on in their bodies. They still don't know what certain parts of our brains do, they still don't know how to cure a common cold, and they say they know about sexuality, about gender. Well, you're not a man because you like football and you're not a woman because you're attracted to men and you're not a chick because you like to be the one who gives and you're not a dude because you like to receive or because sometimes you cry at dumb movies.

A loud, purposeful knock on the front door froze him in place with his fist over the fabric. “Hey, dude, it’s me. I brought you all four Bloodsport movies. Open up!” Jason’s voice filtered past the front door, and he and Violet flew apart like teenagers at a party raid. No way. This wasn’t happening. He had not just gotten cock-blocked by his best friend and partner, AKA the only living relative of the woman he’d very nearly stripped naked in his front hallway.

The thing that, for me, triggers a realization that my life is hollow without [insert man] is the release of a new movie in a franchise or a season in a show that I had watched with some dude.

There is always a man eager to explain my mental illness to me. They all do it so confidently, motioning to their Hemingway and Bukowski bookshelf as they compare my depression to their late-night loneliness. There is always someone that rejected them that they equate their sadness to and a bottle of gin (or a song playing, or a movie) close by that they refer to as their cure. Somehow, every soft confession of my Crazy that I hand to them turns into them pulling out pieces of themselves to prove how it really is in my head. So many dudes I’ve dated have faces like doctors ready to institutionalize and love my crazy (but only on Friday nights.) They tell their friends about my impulsive decision making and how I “get them” more than anyone they’ve ever met but leave out my staring off in silence for hours and the self-inflicted bruises on my cheeks. None of them want to acknowledge a crazy they can’t cure. They want a crazy that fits well into a trope and gives them a chance to play Hero. And they always love a Crazy that provides them material to write about. Truth is they love me best as a cigarette cloud of impossibility, with my lipstick applied perfectly and my Crazy only being pulled out when their life needs a little spice. They don’t want me dirty, having not left my bed for days. Not diseased. Not real. So they invite me over when they’re going through writer’s block but don’t answer my calls during breakdowns. They tell me I look beautiful when I’m crying then stick their hands in-between my thighs. They mistake my silence for listening to them attentively and say my quiet mouth understands them like no one else has. These men love my good dead hollowness. Because it means less of a fighting personality for them to force out. And is so much easier to fill someone who has already given up with themselves.

No wait, let me guess. You tell me I'm some kind of chosen one and in exchange for my soul or some such nonsense you will save my mom. There's probably a prophecy involved, and some danger, and you think your sexy charms will overcome all that and sway me to your way of thinking, yes? Sorry, dude. I've seen that movie." He

He screams like a girl if he has to watch a horror movie." Caleb "Hey!" Nick "Well, you do. I Tried to watch Child's Play and you ran off to hide during the opening credits. And then he had to go sleep with his mom in her bed for three days because he was so scared." Caleb "Dude! You promised me you weren't going to tell anyone about that." Nick

And you seen enough horror movies to know the black dude don’t ever make it to the end.” “We all appreciate your sacrifice, TJ.” “Fuck you.” He laughed. So did I.

An old fashioned outfit is not a costume, it's a comedy.

You're like a monster, dude'", he says, light amusement coloring his strained voice. "'From a monster movie. The man who would not fucking quit

Summer flings always seemed amazing in movies, though that might be because the leading man did not ever call his romantic interest "dude.

Normally when I tell people I'm a gender studies major, they look at me like I'm studying Sanskrit or Latin. But now, NOW I had something to show my family, to possibly convince them that one day I would be employable. Look! People still like feminism! Or maybe they just really like Ryan Gosling's face. But they're getting that face with a dose of feminism! Like it or not.

Isn’t this what happens in the movies a lot? There’s some old dude or woman who tells your fortune and is all, ‘Oh, you’re gonna die or make a boatload of money or meet a girl. Now give me all your cash’?” Boz yammered. Mrs. Smith bristled. “I can tell your fortune right now without even consulting your palm.” “You can?” “Yes. You are an idiot. You will always be an idiot.

Dude,” Austin said as we exited the freeway, “in fifty years, all of the old folks’ homes are going to be filled with seniors listening to Justin Bieber on the oldies station and talking about how movies used to be in two-D.

Remember the start of 2001: A Space Odyssey? Bunch of monkeys collecting bones. What‘s that got to do with space? They don‘t even have lasers! Cut that shit. And what about Citizen Kane? If they‘d wanted to gross some dollar, they should‘ve called it Dude, Where‘s My Sled?

So it's actually way easier just to humor these men who grew up watching movies where the girl doesn't like the hero until he's been persistent enough to make her like him. This is the grease that keeps the gears of the heteronormativity machine spinning, obviously, but it's just easier to slip out of an awkward situation with an awkward guy than it is to call out the misogyny inherent in what he's doing. It's a tough spot to be in, but also this is coming from an angry dyke who's also trans and who, at one point, had society try to use her as a vessel for that kinda of misogyny.

For every person who was alarmed or startled to see an armoured, paramilitary-looking figure rushing past at astonishing speed, there were ten who were simply annoyed or indignant. "Hey, asshole, go shoot your goddamn sci-fi movie somewhere else!" "Extreme sports is California, dude!" "Fuck you, buddy!" New York.

He was especially excited about Aguirre, the Wrath of God. "Look at this crazy dude," he yelled, point at Klaus Kinski, who on the cover is wearing a Viking helmet and looks like a psychopath. So--with Dad's permission--we put the film in and watched it. This would turn out to be the single most important thing ever to happen in our lives.

Goodman, a friend of the Coens since he worked with them on their second movie, Raising Arizona, laughed about the scene where William Macy tried to escape out of a motel window, only to be dragged back inside by the cops. “Macy in his underwear,” Goodman said, giggling. “That’s our answer to everything,” Ethan said. “You need a dramatic fall, put a character in his undies.

What’s not to love about being expertly lit and drunk at two in the afternoon? But I’m going to need you to love me on the bus, dude. And first thing in the morning. Also, when I’m drunk and refuse to shut up about getting McNuggets from the drive-thru. When I fall asleep in the middle of that movie you paid extra to see in IMAX. When I wear the flowered robe I got at Walmart and the sweatpants I made into sweatshorts to bed.

There's no way to tell if Ryan Gosling is actually a feminist; feminism is a serious business, and something you have to come to on your own terms. He hasn't actually said anything in this book. But he is charming, talented, and intelligent; he has said some things in the media that can be construed as feminist. He loves his mom and takes ballet. He has nice things to say about the women he dates. It's not too far-fetched, right?

America’s primary institution of learning—the movies—has taught us that when we find ourselves in a strange and eerily quiet place with lots of doors, waiting behind one of them will be either a psychopathic killer or a monster of supernatural or extraterrestrial origin. Of course, if it’s an Adam Sandler comedy, behind the door will lurk a goofy dude waiting to deliver a joke involving poop, pee, or genitals. I wasn’t in such a comedy, but that was all right, because I preferred a psychopath or a monster.

EVANSTON. And I’m still basically there. All the time. Unlike Eddie Vedder, I can’t get out. I work there, my doctor is there, and even though I technically live within the Chicago city limits, if I need to go to the supermarket or the movies, I always think of the Evanston ones first. It’s a trap. No one ever leaves this place. Not kidding, I see my junior-year English teacher at Starbucks every morning, which is down the block from the bagel shop this dude I graduated with just bought. It’s gross. I gotta grow the fuck up.

Right around that time, I started dating a guy named Jeff. He was a classically handsome, popular guy. But there was something different about him too. He was angrier than most teenage boys, and a little misunderstood. I ignored the signs that he was probably a bit unstable. Signs like when they gave him a fish fillet at McDonald’s instead of a Big Mac, he became so furious that he cried. Truly lost it. Real tears of rage. Like the kind of tears guys are only supposed to get when they watch a movie that touches on their dad issues. (So, most movies.) Isn’t it funny that they say most girls have daddy issues, when really, every dude does? But this dude had daddy, mommy, doggy, and fish fillet issues. I just thought, Well, he can’t help it. But I understand him. I’m here for him. Even though we were both generally well liked, when we were together it was us vs. the world. I’ve only recently broken my pattern of being drawn to the “you’re the only one who gets me” guy. Which is a bad guy to be drawn to, and it’s not a coincidence if everyone—including all your friends and family and your dog—dislikes him. But

Do you hang out with the DWTS pros after the show? Are you guys friends? We definitely all get along and support one another, out and about. We’ve known each other a long time. At the premier of my movie, Val came to the after party. I finished all my press and I said, “Do you want to go watch the end of the movie?” I have a really tough time watching myself on screen so all I wanted to do was get out of the theater. Val could sense how uncomfortable I was and he knows how self-critical I am. He said to me, “Dude, you looked great up there. Are you gonna win an Oscar for it? No! But you’re on the right track.” I thought that was hilarious--nothing like a friend to put it all into perspective for you!

I sprinkle some flour on the dough and roll it out with the heavy, wooden rolling pin. Once it’s the perfect size and thickness, I flip the rolling pin around and sing into the handle—American Idol style. “Calling Gloriaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .” And then I turn around. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Without thinking, I bend my arm and throw the rolling pin like a tomahawk . . . straight at the head of the guy who’s standing just inside the kitchen door. The guy I didn’t hear come in. The guy who catches the hurling rolling pin without flinching—one-handed and cool as a gorgeous cucumber—just an inch from his perfect face. He tilts his head to the left, looking around the rolling pin to meet my eyes with his soulful brown ones. “Nice toss.” Logan St. James. Bodyguard. Totally badass. Sexiest guy I have ever seen—and that includes books, movies and TV, foreign and domestic. He’s the perfect combo of boyishly could-go-to-my-school kind of handsome, mixed with dangerously hot and tantalizingly mysterious. If comic-book Superman, James Dean, Jason Bourne and some guy with the smoothest, most perfectly pitched, British-Scottish-esque, Wessconian-accented voice all melded together into one person, they would make Logan fucking St. James. And I just tried to clock him with a baking tool—while wearing my Rick and Morty pajama short-shorts, a Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt I’ve had since I was eight and my SpongeBob SquarePants slippers. And no bra. Not that I have a whole lot going on upstairs, but still . . . “Christ on a saltine!” I grasp at my chest like an old woman with a pacemaker. Logan’s brow wrinkles. “Haven’t heard that one before.” Oh fuck—did he see me dancing? Did he see me leap? God, let me die now. I yank on my earbuds’ cord, popping them from my ears. “What the hell, dude?! Make some noise when you walk in—let a girl know she’s not alone. You could’ve given me a heart attack. And I could’ve killed you with my awesome ninja skills.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “No, you couldn’t.” He sets the rolling pin down on the counter. “I knocked on the kitchen door so I wouldn’t frighten you, but you were busy with your . . . performance.” Blood and heat rush to my face. And I want to melt into the floor and then all the way down to the Earth’s core.

As a society we are only now getting close to where Dogen was eight hundred years ago. We are watching all our most basic assumptions about life, the universe, and everything come undone, just like Dogen saw his world fall apart when his parents died. Religions don’t seem to mean much anymore, except maybe to small groups of fanatics. You can hardly get a full-time job, and even if you do, there’s no stability. A college degree means very little. The Internet has leveled things so much that the opinions of the greatest scientists in the world about global climate change are presented as being equal to those of some dude who read part of the Bible and took it literally. The news industry has collapsed so that it’s hard to tell a fake headline from a real one. Money isn’t money anymore; it’s numbers stored in computers. Everything is changing so rapidly that none of us can hope to keep up. All this uncertainty has a lot of us scrambling for something certain to hang on to. But if you think I’m gonna tell you that Dogen provides us with that certainty, think again. He actually gives us something far more useful. Dogen gives us a way to be okay with uncertainty. This isn’t just something Buddhists need; it’s something we all need. We humans can be certainty junkies. We’ll believe in the most ridiculous nonsense to avoid the suffering that comes from not knowing something. It’s like part of our brain is dedicated to compulsive dot-connecting. I think we’re wired to want to be certain. You have to know if that’s a rope or a snake, if the guy with the chains all over his chest is a gangster or a fan of bad seventies movies. Being certain means being safe. The downfall is that we humans think about a lot of stuff that’s not actually real. We crave certainty in areas where there can never be any. That’s when we start in with believing the crazy stuff. Dogen is interesting because he tries to cut right to the heart of this. He gets into what is real and what is not. Probably the main reason he’s so difficult to read is that Dogen is trying to say things that can’t actually be said. So he has to bend language to the point where it almost breaks. He’s often using language itself to show the limitations of language. Even the very first readers of his writings must have found them difficult. Dogen understood both that words always ultimately fail to describe reality and that we human beings must rely on words anyway. So he tried to use words to write about that which is beyond words. This isn’t really a discrepancy. You use words, but you remain aware of their limitations. My teacher used to say, “People like explanations.” We do. They’re comforting. When the explanation is reasonably correct, it’s useful.

He knew nothing about werewolves but what was in the movies. He hadn’t even believed they existed until he was attacked. The tall dude, though, knew. Joshua managed to force his body to make a left-hand turn at the corner, and again once he was across the street, and then a third time. He came looping past the Kitchen Kitsch where the tall dude was standing in the hole in the wall. “You’re really conflicted about this running away part, aren’t you?” the dude said as Joshua dashed past him. “Yes!” He tried to put on the brakes but his body kept running. He could smell his own blood on the man and his body wanted nothing to do with that. The dude wasn’t standing in the hole as Joshua came looping back toward the Kitchen Kitsch a second time. Joshua was afraid he’d lost the man. He was so focused on the opposite side of the street that he nearly ran into the glass door that opened out in front of him. A hand caught him, jerking him into the building.

- Do you have books? - books on what? books on comets? - anything ... comets, gravity, black holes... - Yeah, I've got Shakespeare, some Henry Miller and some screenplays. Dude, I'm a fucking actor - Anything about quantum physics? - Yeah, that's right up my alley - Some actors read ...

The vast majority of dudes (are) doing this high testosterone sort of storytelling, and so we put our fantasy on the plate on the pages. It might not be the right platform for females. I’ve got two daughters, and if I wanted to do something that I thought was emboldened to a female, I probably wouldn’t choose superhero comic books to get that message across. I would do it in either a TV show, a movie, a novel, or a book. It wouldn’t be superheroes because I know that’s heavily testosterone – driven, and it’s a certain kind of group of people. That’s not where I would go get this kind of message, so it might not be the right platform for some of this.

40 minutes in a city is nothing. But 40 minutes along a rural highway seems like an eternity. So we’re driving along, and I ask my friend if we’re there yet, and he says no, so I say, “Jesus. By the time we get there, the kid won’t even be dead anymore.” There is this pause in the car, and one of the other actors says, “Dude. Did you just quote your own movie?” I answered in the affirmative, and he says, “That was very cool.

There are really only two kinds of monsters in the world, which you already know if you’ve been watching horror movies: Breeders and Non-breeders.

The most significant source of my adolescent period anxiety was the fact that, in America in 2016 (and far more so in 1993), acknowledging the completely normal and mundane function of most uteruses is still taboo. The taboo is so strong that it contributes to the widespread stonewalling of women from seats of power - for fear that, as her first act in the White House, Hillary might change Presidents' Day to Brownie Batter Makes the Boo-Hoos Stop Day. The taboo is strong enough that a dude once broke up with me because a surprise period started while we were having sex and the sight of it shattered some pornified illusion he had of women as messless pleasure pillows. The taboo is so strong that while we've all seen swimming pools of blood shed in horror movies and action movies and even on the news, when a woman ran the 2015 London Marathon without a tampon, photos of blood spotting her running gear made the social media rounds to near-universal disgust. The blood is the same - the only difference is where it's coming from. The disgust is at women's natural bodies, not at blood itself.

People seem to think horror is anti-woman, but I think a lot of it subverts gender dynamics. In most cases, you don’t want to be the dude in the horror movie. The dudes get dead. They ride in like the hero to save the ladies and the villain is like—nope. The women save themselves.

I ran into Chris Pratt a few months later. He was surrounded by reporters and focused on selling a movie, but he shouted when he saw me: "Hey, dude! The Cubs! The Cubs! Our prayer worked!

Dude, you want me to just let you into my house? That’s how horror movies start.

I expected the members of Earth’s leading society of villains to be smarter,” I said. “I don’t know why.” “They’re smarter in movies and books.” “They would have to be, wouldn’t they?” Morrison said. “In the real world, they can be what people like them usually are: a bunch of dudes born into money who used that money to take advantage of other people to make even more money. It works great until they start believing that being rich makes them smart, and then they get in trouble. Unless they find someone else to take advantage of.

That's what I get for reading. I'm sticking to action movies with oily shirtless dudes and WWE from now on. Nothing good ever comes from literature.

Fight Club’s quiet 1996 release came just a few years after the arrival of the so-called men’s movement, in which dissatisfied dudes looking to reclaim their masculinity would gather for all-male retreats in the woods. They’d bang drums and lock arms in the hope of escaping what had become a “deep national malaise,” noted Newsweek. “What teenagers were to the 1960s, what women were to the 1970s, middle-aged men may well be to the 1990s: American culture’s sanctioned grievance carriers, diligently rolling their ball of pain from talk show to talk show.

I noticed the dudes in the ambulance were staying put; I hoped they were calling for backup, or maybe somebody who could do an exorcism, or maybe my pal Stephen King, because if anybody on earth could figure a way out of this mess, it'd be Uncle Stevie.

The WASP style was often portrayed on TV and in movies as a sort of archetypical American look, and some of my new friends seemed to subscribe to it. I decided I’d try it too. I’d tried other looks previously, like Glam dude and Amish geezer, so why not this one?

Michael Gambon, the British actor best known in the States for Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective (and later for playing professor Albus Dumbledore in the final six Harry Potter movies), was a contender for the role of the Big Lebowski. Joel had met him in New York, Ethan said, “Yeah, he’s … a good actor and we have a mutual friend and he’s supposed to be perfectly pleasant to work with …” “But?” “But …” Gambon was British. The idea didn’t seem … right, not for a real Pasadena guy.

You're like a monster, dude", he says, light amusement coloring his strained voice. "From a monster movie. The man who would not fucking quit

I’m still eleven years old and still a scrawny dude. As much as I want to say being a ninja bulked me up a bunch, it hasn’t, but that’s a good thing since a beefy ninja would be weird looking. Buchanan School has been good to me. I was the new kid at the start of the year, but nobody really gave me gruff about it. Cool kids and sports stars fill the hallways between classes, and I do my best to stay off everyone’s radar. I’m what some people might call a “comic book nerd,” but I prefer the term “aficionado,” which means I’m more of an expert in comics and less of a nerd. It’s a term I learned from my cousin, Zoe. She’s the coolest cousin in the world, but don’t tell her I said that. I’ve become better friends with Brayden, the werewolf hunter, but I wouldn’t say we’re “best friends.” We’ve hung out a couple times outside of school to watch bad horror movies and make fun of them. Trust me when I say it’s a lot more fun than it sounds. Zoe came over once and even she laughed a couple times. About

The tall guy with the goatee turned out to be named Richard and he was working with another guy named Clark, who had the body of a tapeworm—impossibly long, impossibly pale—with the angular face of a German silent movie star crowned with a vertical explosion of wiry jet-black hair. He wore shoes that had been patched together so many times they looked like they were made out of duct tape, and the genius vibe came off him like BO. If I said Wittgenstein, the dude you’re picturing in your head looked like Clark.

Oh, yeah—she’s convinced we’re all direct descendants of the dudes with the CGI abs in the movie 300.

A couple of coworkers and I went to see the movie Collateral one evening. When we came back to the office around 11:00 (to go back to work), we ran into Chris Metzen sitting in the hallway. Upper management was making an effort to stay late with the team to show solidarity, and tonight was Chris’s night. He was playing the new beta and preparing for the final boss fight in Gnomeregan. Dungeon crawls were far more intense than anything he was used to, and he told the people standing behind his desk that he actually felt nervous before the fight. “Dude, my heart is pumping so hard right now, I’m gonna have a fucking heart attack. Just look at my hands, they’re shaking. I’ve never been so nervous about a game before this!” As his party prepared to fight the Gnomeregan end boss monster, Mekgineer Thermaplugg, Chris typed, “Remember guys, he’s just a gnome!” After a heated battle, Chris died screaming, seconds before the boss collapsed. This was before players received postmortem credit for kills, so Chris couldn’t complete his dungeon quest. He was so disappointed, he immediately went home. When I told Jeff what had happened the next morning, he laughed and replied, “Ouch. That really sucks. We should give kill-credit to everyone in the party, dead or alive.

Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr. The cool kids of the 1960s invited the old man who had been cool before they knew cool was cool to join them in a musical romp that nobody took particularly seriously. Crosby enjoys himself. He has nothing at stake, since he’s not the star who has to carry the film. He’s very casual, and appears to be ad-libbing all his lines in the old Road tradition with a touch of W. C. Fields’s colorful vocabulary thrown in: “You gentlemen find my raiment repulsive?” he asks Sinatra and Martin when they object to his character’s lack of chic flash in clothing. Crosby plays a clever con man who disguises himself as square, and his outfits reflect a conservative vibe in the eyes of the cats who are looking him over. The inquiry leads into a number, “Style,” in which Sinatra and Martin put Crosby behind closet doors for a series of humorous outfit changes, to try to spruce him up. Crosby comes out in a plaid suit with knickers and then in yellow pants and an orange-striped shirt. Martin and Sinatra keep on singing—and hoping—while Crosby models a fez. He finally emerges with a straw hat, a cane, and a boutonniere in his tuxedo lapel, looking like a dude. In his own low-key way, taking his spot in the center, right between the other two, Crosby joins in the song and begins to take musical charge. Sinatra is clearly digging Crosby, the older man he always wanted to emulate.*17 Both Sinatra and Martin are perfectly willing to let Crosby be the focus. He’s earned it. He’s the original that the other two wanted to become. He was there when Sinatra and Martin were still kids. He’s Bing Crosby! The three men begin to do a kind of old man’s strut, singing and dancing perfectly together (“…his hat got a little more shiny…”). The audience is looking at the three dominant male singers of the era from 1940 to 1977. They’re having fun, showing everyone exactly not only what makes a pro, not only what makes a star, but what makes a legend. Three great talents, singing and dancing about style, which they’ve all clearly got plenty of: Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and Dean Martin in Robin and the 7 Hoods

Video stores invented a new kind of independent director that became so pervasive it instantly became a caricature: the fiscally insolvent, vociferously unglamorous dude (and it was always a dude) who used his video store experience to build an encyclopedic, unorthodox, pretentious cinematic worldview. The 1995 coming-of-age comedy Kicking and Screaming includes a minor character who manages a video store while preparing to direct his own feature film, yet plans to continue working in the video store after his movie is released so that he can properly stock it on the shelves.

Oh yeah, who doesn't love a movie night with their bestie, watching home videos of her getting fucked by four dudes at once?

He imagined a reality show host selling Los Angeles to a live audience: “Are you a surfer dude hitting the waves? You’ll fit right in. How about a hipster starting a gluten-free cookie brand or a new church? Of course. And is there a place for a young family raising small children? You bet. How about a retired couple wanting to play bingo all day? Indeed. High-powered executives? Yes! Lawyers, doctors, agents, and managers? Best place to thrive. Gym buffs, starlets, chefs, yoga teachers, students, writers, healers, misfits, trainers, nurses? Right this way, please. Are you into cosplay, improv, porn, Roller Derby, voyeurism, cemetery movie screenings, food truck drag racing, AA, relapse, rehab, open mic, plastic surgery, wine tastings, biker meetups, karaoke, clubbing, S and M, or escape rooms? Come on over!” Every race, religion, nationality, gender, sexual orientation, and food preference was well represented within Los Angeles County, and this is what Oscar loved most about his city;

Jim: We got the idea of subtitling the Black dudes after we saw the 1975 Blaxploitation movie Shaft, starring Richard Roundtree. When we left the theater we thought it was pretty good, but we couldn’t understand a lot of the jive dialogue. The cast was 95 percent Black. So we thought wouldn’t it be fun to put a couple of those characters in Airplane! and subtitle them with idiotic white guy translations?

If we lived in a better world, I would’ve turned to her and replied, “Really, Jane? Are you serious right now? You want me to go as John Smith, the asshole colonizer? I mean, I know the Disney version of the movie makes his ethical position sort of ‘debatable’ or whatever, but we all know that is some propaganda bullshit. Are you seriously suggesting I walk around the neighborhood dressed as a genocide-perpetrating white dude?

1.​Identify the messages that are being presented. They all have one or more. (Except maybe that song about there being millions of peaches… I think those dudes were just high.) 2.​Along with your kids, identify which values the creators are elevating. (Freedom? Autonomy? Sex? Drugs? Pride?) Which values are they demeaning? (Humility? Responsibility? Traditional gender roles?) 3.​Try to piece together the worldview behind the message. What do you think the artist’s definition of good and bad is? What about moral and immoral? What is the good life—the life that reflects success (according to their art or writing)? Is it money? Lots of romantic relationships? Freedom from rules? 4.​If you are watching a movie, identify which characters and qualities are presented in an attractive way. Pay attention to the traits that are exhibited by the villains. The protagonist and antagonist are often archetypes, or representations of ideas.

No I didn't draw a background because dude do you have any idea how long it takes to draw a proper background? I'm supposed to be relaxing after that huge battle, not slaving away in my journal!

What…the…” I breathed. “You were married to…” I blinked. “Wait,” I said to my mother, “you were married?” “To your father,” my mother returned. “Until he died.” “Then does that mean…” I blinked again, and turned to Reed, who gave me a shrug and a shake of the head. “You’re my brother?” Reed nodded. “Half, anyway.” Kat spoke up, drawing my attention along with everyone else’s. “What…the hell is going on here? Can I go yet?” “Stay where you are, Kitten,” my mother snapped at her. “My name is Kat!” A withering glare from my mother caused Kat to flinch. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, chastened. “So Sienna and this dude are brother and sister?” Clary piped up from behind me. “Cuz I thought I caught ro-mantic tension between them. Heh,” he guffawed. “Guess it’s more like BRO-mantic tension!” He burst out in uncontrolled laughter which was echoed by no one. “What?” He turned to Bastian. “Roberto, that is funny! Come on!” I turned to Reed. “All this time you’ve been playing Leia to my Luke and you never told me?” He frowned. “What? I’m totally Luke. You’re the girl. Can you make objects move through the air?” He raised his finger and I felt a gust of wind blow my hair. “No? I’m Luke. You’re Leia. Get it straight.” “So who’s Han Solo?” Clary asked seriously. “And Darth Vader?” “I’m going to kill every last one of you pathetic geeks,” my mother said. “And I’m not even going to be nice about it. I’m going to just start draining souls. Will you please stop with the moronic Star Wars references? The movies came out in the 1970s. Most of you weren’t even born then. Move on with your lives.

O-kay…where does one go to people-watch lovers?” “Places you’d go on a date. Movies, dinner, the park, the beach, the mall.” “Seriously?” he gaped incredulously. “If you were gonna ask someone out, you’d take them to the mall? Dude. Even I know that’s lame.” “Okay, but I’m not writing about only things I like. I want to write in a language everyone understands. Get it?” “But the mall?” I sighed in mock defeat. “Pretend you just landed a hot date with the guy or girl of your dreams. Where are you gonna go?” “Somewhere free. I’m on a tight budget.” “The mall is free.” “And boring,” he countered. “And what’s the point of going someplace where you can’t afford anything?” “You can window shop,” I suggested cheerily.

A lot of girls like to joke about being a handful, but the truth is: You probably fucking are. Fortunately, there are plenty of dudes who dig the shit out of girls slightly off their rocker. There’s something oddly rewarding about being able to handle a girl no one else can. It’s like being a pirate, and crazy girls are like an ocean — full of sharks, saltwater crocodiles, jellyfish, and a bunch of other shit that will totally fucking kill you — but, if you know how to navigate her deadly, crazy-lady waters, you’ll reach  an island filled with treasures. Treasures like: exciting conversations, R-rated movies, and sex on a Tuesday.

Frankie spun around, and couldn’t believe his tired eyes. Standing there – like a cowboy in the old Western movies Frankie’s dad often fell asleep in front of – was none other than Drew Bird. The Guard With The Scar had moved next to the Close-But-Not-Close-Enough-Emperor, and Frankie saw him translate Drew’s question. The toffee-toothed figure on the stage grinned as he replied. ‘He wants to know what game you suggest,’ said Ping, her voice weak. Instantly, Drew Bird produced the old dirty bottle from behind his back; the exact one that had been tossed into the South China Sea on behalf of Alfie Fish, found by Oscar Bugg on a war-torn Japanese beach in 1945, and then brought to Frankie Fish in Australia by the mystery-hunting Texan twins – and then half-filled with river water just days earlier. If Drew was feeling nervous, he certainly didn’t show it. Arms folded, head tilted to one side, Drew asked his next question, which made Frankie gasp in shock. ‘Do you know anything about bottle-flipping, Close-But-Not-Quite-Emperor dude?

Fans say they prefer the 'realism' of Nolan's films compared to Burton's. (..) If these films were realistic, they would consist of crowds of people pointing at Batman and saying 'It's one of those Fathers4Justice morons! What a DICK.' Also, take it from a reformed fashion writer: no man can wear a full-length cape in the real world without sparking serious mockery. Who comes looking for realism when they watch a movie about some dude who flies through the air dressed as a freaking bat?

It was a car racing movie, my brother’s favorite kind of movie, and one of the characters picked up a sledgehammer, using it to destroy the hood of his friend’s car. The boys groaned. Hugo even covered his mouth and sat up. I rolled my eyes. Boys. “Dude,” my brother said. Wes exhaled. “You don’t do that to your bro’s car.

Any asshole can fall in love on a private beach in a tropical locale, surrounded by lush flora and adorable fauna, shining suns and chirping birds. Give me ten uninterrupted minutes without some ding-dong demanding something or subtweeting me or making me do work and I could fall in love with my worst fucking enemy. Seriously. What’s not to love about being expertly lit and drunk at two in the afternoon? But I’m going to need you to love me on the bus, dude. And first thing in the morning. Also, when I’m drunk and refuse to shut up about getting McNuggets from the drive-thru. When I fall asleep in the middle of that movie you paid extra to see in IMAX. When I wear the flowered robe I got at Walmart and the sweatpants I made into sweatshorts to bed. When I am blasting “More and More” by Blood Sweat & Tears at seven on a Sunday morning while cleaning the kitchen and fucking up your mom’s frittata recipe. When I bring a half dozen gross, mangled kittens home to foster for a few nights and they shit everywhere and pee on your side of the bed. When I go “grocery shopping” and come back with only a bag of Fritos and five pounds of pork tenderloin. When I’m sick and stumbling around the crib with half a roll of toilet paper shoved in each nostril. When I beg you fourteen times to read something I’ve written, then get mad when you tell me what you don’t like about it and I call you an uneducated idiot piece of shit. Lovebird city.

Welcome to the Blackcastle Book Club’s official group chat!” “Seriously? You put a picture from The Land Before Time as the group’s profile picture?” “Why not? It’s a good movie.” “Dude, that’s so wrong. It’s a children’s film, and we’re reading about dinosaurs boning.” “It’s a good thing we’re not making them read the books, isn’t it? But fine, I see your point. I wanted to keep it a surprise, but since you insist on policing my admin decisions, I’ve changed the picture to the cover of this month’s book club pick. Gentlemen, prepare yourselves for **drumroll please** Shagging the Spinosaurus!” “We already guessed that was the book of the month. We saw you reading it the other day Aren’t you supposed to read it with the rest of the club? Why are you reading it early?” “Yeah, that’s CHEATING.” “It’s called vetting. Also, I’m the admin. I can do what I want.” “I tried looking for it at the bookstore yesterday and couldn’t find it. Donovan, what was the name of the store you went to?” “Uh… I don’t remember. Just some shop I stumbled on in the city. I’m sure you can buy the book online.” “I don’t understand. How do you shag a spinosaurus?” “The same way you shag a triceratops and a T-rex, genius.” “Oh, you sound so bloody confident. Are you speaking from experience?” “Gentlemen, let’s get back on track! This is a book club, not a fight club. Our first official meeting is on Wednesday. I want everyone to come prepared with at least one discussion question.” “Dibs on the ‘how do you shag a spinosaurus’ question.” “You can’t ask that. It has to be a THOUGHTFUL question.” “How thoughtful do you want us to be? We’re literally reading about dinosaurs fucking.” “And humans If you forget them, that’s human erasure.” “Fuck off, Donovan.” “Spoken like someone who doesn’t have the IQ to come up with a good question.” “Yeah? Let’s wait until Wednesday and see. I bet my question will be better than yours.” “You’re on. May the better questioner win.” “Okayyy. Moving on. Noah, since you refuse to participate in the LITERARY side of our club, you’re in charge of snacks.” “Fine.” “I’m thinking we could do a themed event with dinosaur crackers. Do you think they make custom spinosaurus ones?” “So we’re going to eat the little dude while we read about him getting it on? That’s so wrong.” “Poor Spiny. He deserves better.” “It was an IDEA. I don’t see you guys coming up with anything better.” “How about jungle juice to stay with the dinosaur theme?” “Dinosaurs didn’t live in the jungle.” “How do you know? Were you there?” “Lol.” “Don’t talk to your captain like that.” “You’re our football captain. You’re not the president of this book club. Also, I just looked it up and they did live in jungles, so you’re wrong.” “Wait, we have a president?” “Yes, it’s me. Anyway Noah, can you call the dinosaur cracker company and ask them for custom spinosaurus snacks? Hello? Noah?” Noah Wilson left the conversation.