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Submit to pulp

October 2001

Download the word version, perfect for printing and handing out on street corners!
In this issue:    Spooks, shocks, Satan, and the Return of the Living Eeyore! .
Captain Kronos: Vampire Hunter *****

Ah, the cross genre picture. Without this charming innovation in demographic marketing, we would have been deprived of the mind-numbing medieval sports movie A Knight's Tale, the migraine inducing horror-musical The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and the adoption of the word 'dramedy' into the English language. Unfortunately, for this particular marketing strategy to work, the genres crossed have to actually be popular, which makes a swashbuckling vampire movie like England's Captain Kronos about as intriguing as a Pauly Shore period piece. Swashbuckling went out of style around the same time people stopped wearing Zorro moustaches and dressing like Snidely Whiplash, so while including sword-fighting and chandelier swinging in a period piece horror movie may be historically accurate, it still has all the contemporary relevance of Reefer Madness. Kronos, the swashbuckler in question, is a cross between Errol Flynn and Buffy Summers, only with girlier hair. Blessed with fine Aryan good looks, preternatural speed, and an alarming attitude towards women worthy of Andrew Dice Clay, Kronos, along with his trusty hunchback sidekick Hieronymous, scours the European countryside in search of vampires and busty wenches. He finds them both in a small British hamlet, which has developed a rather severe vampire problem, along with the far more troubling fact that every male character introduced is more foppish than the last. How a nation composed entirely of men who look like either Goldilocks or Leonardo Di Caprio in drag managed to control most of the known world for a significant portion of history is beyond me. Even now, when the British empire consists mainly of the Earl Grey Tea Company and four Doc Martens factories, British people have a tendency to conduct themselves like kings among men, merely because their accent makes ordering a bacon double cheeseburger meal at McDonalds sound like a Shakespeare soliloquy. Unless, of course, that British person happens to be Bob Hoskins, uttering endless strings of Cockney gibberish punctuated with foul profanity, in which case the romance leaves the accent somewhat. I don't know who the hell British people think they are, anyway. Judging from The Patriot and Braveheart, they're about as civilized as a stranded Chilean soccer team, ready to kill Mel Gibson's children at the drop of a hat. And just because the Beatles managed to sell a few records despite their inability to spell their own name, the English think they have the right to release Coldplay albums without fear of military reprisals. And don't forget that they're entirely to blame for both Mr. Bean and an whole generation of high school students quoting Monty Python routines on the way to the Star Trek convention. In fact, nearly ever repugnant social trend in contemporary society can be traced back to the British in one form or another, from the preponderance of simple-minded quiz shows hosted by dullards and harpies, to Who's Line Is It Anyway causing a resurgence of interest in improv, possibly the most boring game since competitive Boggle. It's this irritating superiority complex the British have that causes them to impose their crappy, vaguely effeminate culture upon us colonists, and I for one refuse to stand for it. Fellow Canadians, the time has come to cast off the shackles of our oppressors, to say 'No' to further episodes of Black Adder and disjointed British gangster movies, to refuse to listen to anymore Radiohead records or Chemical Brothers re-mixes without at least some sort of written explanation, to recognize that 'centre' is a ridiculous way to spell the word, and that tea is nothing more than homosexual coffee. It's time to revolt against the institution, and to embrace our own culture. Sure, it may a pretty boring culture, composed mainly of hockey, alcoholism, and slow-moving Atom Egoyan movies, but hey, at least we don't swashbuckle.

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