I think this is what they were talking about.
I'm not sure if this was broadcast on air, but there is no doubt that it is literally the worst thing ever. Worse than AIDS? Yeah. It's worse than AIDS. And now that you've watched it, you're a carrier. Your computer has slept with every single other computer that's had its dick crushed by Busty Heart. And whether you want to believe it or not America, that's a whole lotta dick.
When I met Zak Snyder this weekend, he warned me of one thing. "Just don't get into male porn," his words echoed. I knew then and there that cruel fate had placed a destiny upon me. "I'm not ruling anything out," I replied. He laughed heartily, and said, "With that kind of attitude you'll be fine." But I wouldn't be fine.
Not until I became a Male Porn Star.
MATT SHORE: JOURNEY TO BECOME A MALE PORN STAR
PART ONE:
THE PRE-CUM
THE PRE-CUM
Zak Snyder thinks that he can tell people who can become a male porn star and who can't. Well, guess what Snyder?! You're not my father. Yeah, that's right-- I fuckin' said that. In fact, why don't you eat a carrot, old man! I hear those are good for your vision. What's that? You're not even that old? What a clever trick, Mr. Senile! Why don't you go back to your bedpan, or do you have to digitalize it into slow motion CG first before your archaic brain can understand it?
Alright, alright, I need to cool out. My apologies. I did not mean the slights to Zak Snyder's character. I was merely vocalizing a lot of pent up Rage that's been building since this Saturday's Rage Against the Machine concert. There were a lot of people shoving in the front row. Tom Morello looked unphased. It was then, as I was getting the shit kicked out of me by frat boys and desperately trying to protect the poor short people who'd mistakenly gotten within fifty feet of the central pit, I realized something: My body was made for male porn. Cut it, fold it, silk it, smooth it. I glisten. I am like Jesus if Jesus had a great body. I am what a normal person thinks of when they fantasize in the mirror. Sometimes when I'm making love, the supermodel I'm making love to will admit she is fantasizing about someone. When I ask her who, she always says, "Matt Shore."
This is why it is so hard for me to accept Zak Snyder's criticism. It was startling that he didn't immediately recognize me from when I remember him calling me and being like, "Yo, Matt-dawg (he totally talks like this)...LOOK. I need you to play my head ass kicker for the Spartans. It might be tough, he is a lot weaker than you and probably couldn't beat nearly anyone at Smash Brothers. Do you have what it takes? (which is bullshit because 'of course')" I paused and I said, "Listen Snyder. I loved Dawn of the Dead save the gay zombie baby. Loved it. Save the baby." I paused to hear him breathing heavily into the phone on the other end. "But you'll have to forgive me, when I say no." He grunted here. "Because," I continued, "I am secretly on an underground mission from the Pentagon fighting the space gnomes." Which was a total burn because I was just cooking lunch, and he knew it, because he could hear the twinkies grilling from the phone. And if it's anyone you should be worried about, it's the Reptiloids, not the Space Gnomes.
So Zak pretended like we were meeting for the first time when I met him. That's cool, I know you wanted to save face in front of your entourage, but please, if you'd like me to pimp your shit on my blog. Just say so. In fact, this entire end paragraph will just be a link to the Watchmen trailer. It's no big deal, Snydes. I'd sell this shit all day long. It's that good. It tastes like butter. I'd sell it to my momma if she still had arms. But look at this stuff and tell me that it's not so good it's pornographic. What I think is, Zak Snydelywhiplash doesn't want me honing in on his turf.
No dice, Slip-n-Snyde. Grease up the fluffer, because this shit just went pro.
And for the people smart enough to read this on blogspot, here we go embedded:
Alright, alright, I need to cool out. My apologies. I did not mean the slights to Zak Snyder's character. I was merely vocalizing a lot of pent up Rage that's been building since this Saturday's Rage Against the Machine concert. There were a lot of people shoving in the front row. Tom Morello looked unphased. It was then, as I was getting the shit kicked out of me by frat boys and desperately trying to protect the poor short people who'd mistakenly gotten within fifty feet of the central pit, I realized something: My body was made for male porn. Cut it, fold it, silk it, smooth it. I glisten. I am like Jesus if Jesus had a great body. I am what a normal person thinks of when they fantasize in the mirror. Sometimes when I'm making love, the supermodel I'm making love to will admit she is fantasizing about someone. When I ask her who, she always says, "Matt Shore."
This is why it is so hard for me to accept Zak Snyder's criticism. It was startling that he didn't immediately recognize me from when I remember him calling me and being like, "Yo, Matt-dawg (he totally talks like this)...LOOK. I need you to play my head ass kicker for the Spartans. It might be tough, he is a lot weaker than you and probably couldn't beat nearly anyone at Smash Brothers. Do you have what it takes? (which is bullshit because 'of course')" I paused and I said, "Listen Snyder. I loved Dawn of the Dead save the gay zombie baby. Loved it. Save the baby." I paused to hear him breathing heavily into the phone on the other end. "But you'll have to forgive me, when I say no." He grunted here. "Because," I continued, "I am secretly on an underground mission from the Pentagon fighting the space gnomes." Which was a total burn because I was just cooking lunch, and he knew it, because he could hear the twinkies grilling from the phone. And if it's anyone you should be worried about, it's the Reptiloids, not the Space Gnomes.
So Zak pretended like we were meeting for the first time when I met him. That's cool, I know you wanted to save face in front of your entourage, but please, if you'd like me to pimp your shit on my blog. Just say so. In fact, this entire end paragraph will just be a link to the Watchmen trailer. It's no big deal, Snydes. I'd sell this shit all day long. It's that good. It tastes like butter. I'd sell it to my momma if she still had arms. But look at this stuff and tell me that it's not so good it's pornographic. What I think is, Zak Snydelywhiplash doesn't want me honing in on his turf.
No dice, Slip-n-Snyde. Grease up the fluffer, because this shit just went pro.
And for the people smart enough to read this on blogspot, here we go embedded:
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