Obviously There’ll Be a Transformers 4

by Michael Bay

I really did try to walk away. I wanted to make some dark comedies, maybe do some more personal movies like George Lucas. I truly, truly, wanted to grow as an artist and a person and let people know that there was more to the bronzed god known in some circles as Mickey Blizow Blizay.

Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect. It turns out that instead of finally sating all of you explosion slut hounds with my magnum goddamn fucking opus, Transformers: Dark of the Moon, I’ve only made you harder. I’ve created a vacuum in your lives that’s only been filled with deep longing; your turgid curiosity beginning to swell to painful levels.

Rest assured; I will give you release. Gentlemen, we’re going to paint the goddamn ceiling of your bedroom, your car, and 4,500 screens across the country the color “man white.” I’d go so far as to suggest that maybe you wear galoshes and tuck your pants into your fucking boots because the floor of those theaters are going to be soaked once I get done with the ladies. They’re going to have to burn the seats after every showing to keep from attracting roving packs of feral cats. Nine months after Transformers 4: Adjective Noun Verb there’s going to be a shitload of kids born that look an awful lot like yours truly.

The resemblance is uncanny.


My one hope is that any of those girls don’t grow up to be super hot. I’m fine, but I worry about them being able to control their urges.  I can’t turn it off, guys, I’m fucking ON at all times, and in large enough numbers, super skinny chicks with giant boobs can overpower even me. Holding me down, ripping all my goddamn clothes off, climbing all over my body—-

It’s amazing that you can accrue all the experience I have and still discover things about yourself. Like new fetishes. I need to talk to Assistant about assembling and training an elite squad of babes to constantly track and attack me using all of their various holes.

Or maybe Boris would be a better fit. Then they’d be stone cold Russian broads who might actually be able to fuck me to death.
 I’m getting off track.

I’m going to do stuff to your eyes that was only legal in the Roman Legion. Brutal, weird, dirty, like actual dirt, undeniably sexy shit to your brain.

You wanted this. Don’t try to deny it, prancing around with that fucking trollop Battle: Los Angeles.

DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME. Badass, never-say-die soldiers fighting alien robots and hover ships, endless shots of helicopters flying against the sun. Fuck you. You goddamn sluts. And I mean sluts in the bad way. Michelle Rodriguez is legit, that chick’ll break your goddamn dick off, but instead she goes hard and to the wall for pussy. I respect that shit out of that. But after her, what do you have? Aaron Eckhart? Besides an impressive jawline, you know what else he’s got? The Core on his resume. He was the most boring guy in the Dark Knight. His origin story was explosion; he had half a face, and I still couldn’t wait to get to literally any other character in the movie.

And then, AND THEN, I find you whoring it up with Battleship? Are you fist-fucking me? Transforming alien robot ships that grasshopper jump across the water, shoot embeddable bombs and smaller robots that attack the brave men and women of the US military in boats the actual military doesn’t even use anymore?

"If it's money you're after, I'm not a rich man, but what I do have is a fleet of battleships. Ships that make me a nightmare for people like you."

Yes, Liam Neeson is in this. You absolutely traded up from me having the guy Fergie’s fucking running around being the military’s go to guy, but I have a feeling this is going to be pre-Taken Neeson where he fucking dies and probably not well. Remember the Star Wars with the coolest looking bad guy that they threw away like he was garbage and made Evil Santa the new villain? Remember how Neeson died in that one? He gets popped in the head, makes the stupidest fucking face, and then gets stabbed in the heart.

Second, they’re using retired battleships. I gather a team of ex-Spetznaz and SAS hardasses, break into the homes of each and every member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s homes and hold their families hostage to get clearance to run my camera and my dick all over the F-22 Raptor and the Osprey, the newest, fastest, deadliest vehicles in the world and this is how you repay me?

Won the war, it did.

Maybe I’ll shoot a movie about those stupid fucking submarines from the Revolutionary War whittled out of barrels and have the setting be a dogfight outside of a black hole. Won’t that be neat? Fuck you.

Do you know how we’re going to top the first three movies? We’re going to have impossible amounts of money because we’re not going to pay actors.

He has more money than I'll ever even be able to imagine.

Do you know what it takes to feed and equip a Shia LaBoeuf? A lot.

Megan Fox? A lot.

Relevant.

A Tyrese? A lot.

A Josh Duhamel? Not as much as you’re probably thinking, but way too much regardless.

So we’re going to get a bunch of glorified extras and up and comers to  stand in front of my canvas, dress in fatigues or swimsuits, and then toss flashbangs at them from a helicopter.

You pussies like Kate Upton? We can get her. And cheap. She needs to expand her brand, and needs the high profile gig way more than the money. If it turns out she needs the money more, we can just trick her. God doesn’t give out tits like that and brains.

Pffft, Big deal. I can do that.

Fact.

That is a fact.

Battleship cast Rihanna who they got the same way we’re going to get Kate Upton. They probably paid her in fishnet stockings and red hair dye. I can say she’s that dumb because she’s talking to Chris Brown, again. Internet, stand down; you’re white knighting an idiot.

"Covering Fi-Fi-Fi-Fi-Fi-Er-Er-Er-Er-Er!"

So Admiral Ay-Ay-Ay-Ay-Ay-Ay-Ay-Ay-Ay is going to fight the aliens and we’re all supposed to believe it. She’s probably an alien spy. Never trust a woman whose tit to ass ratio is dangerously askew.

We have a saying in the Bay household: Stacked Front, Semper Fidelis.

That’s not true. I would eat all my meals off that ass if I could. I just really want this movie to crash and burn because fuck them. Giant robot aliens fighting the military is my house.

What the fuck is that guy doing? Is that acting?

MY HOUSE.

You don’t come into my house, kick my dog, drink my milk, fingerblast my wife, and blow a load in my hot tub (seats 28 boobs) without expecting some kind of retribution. And it’s coming. Listen for the thunder to herald my vengeance. I will burn your whole world to the ground.

You don’t know what I’m capable of. I might not even realize how angry I’ll be when it comes time for it.

In the interest of sportsmanship, here’s a little taste: Step 3 is Impregnate All Daughters.

Forever Relevant.

*-*-*

He’s back!

Matt

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Posted on February 23, 2012, in Character, Matt Loman, Movies, Pop Culture, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. “Covering Fi-Fi-Fi-Fi-Fi-Er-Er-Er-Er-Er!”

  2. You have no idea how much I have missed that picture. Welcome back you beautiful sonofabitch.

  3. “Listen for the thunder to herald my vengeance.”

    If you’ll excuse me, I have to go CafePress some onesies and bibs.

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