Balls Out - The Gary Houseman Story

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Contributor 23

Balls Out, a meandering critique

Ok. This is a downright sinister movie, you'll see. It's a story about the coming of age, manhood, love and all sorts of bullshit.

Allright, Gary Houseman is a Janitor at some pubic eduhcation and indoctrination center in Nebraska. Born to a bad white chauvinist pig father who cheats in table tennis and favours one son over the other with winners beef jerky he figures they can go fuck themselves and he sets out to dominate tennis. Aah..sweet resentment. After a some sort a faux pas in the mexican semi-pro league and lack of dough, he sets out huffing paint and hitching rides until he winds up un nebraska, where he decides to reinvent himself. He blames tennis for his troubles. It's never you that is the bone of contention, immaculate snowflake of a man, Gary. Hah!

What to make of this? Now, as I see it, the problem with movies in the 21st century western society is monumental. Consider if you will the tyranny of retards we live under. That is what democracy is. Dumbshit people with dumbshit ideas and convictions upon which they fucking vote and thereby legitimize The System (yaddayadda, yeahyeah, fight da man, etc). Where do these ideas come from? With the role of fatherhood in the west having been diminished to some sort of a worker bee sperm donor, these dumbshit ideas didn't come from the asshole of a father which is Gary's cowboy hat wearing pa, tho doubt it not, he propagates them with every fiber in his passive-aggressive manchild being.

Anyhow. The reel reels on, for some reason theres a tennis court in nebraska public and naturally Gary can't resist his passion for tennis. Tennis coach Randy Quaid and Gary have a little mano a mano heart to heart conversation in the shitter and not five minutes into this piece of quality entertainment we the viewers are invited to laugh at the prospect of bestiality. You see, reminiscing about drinking in mexico, the naive Gary upon figuring out why there's a donkey and a naked lady on stage in a seedy bar sacrifices his own ass for the entertainment of the patrons of the much fabled donkey show. "Let the girl go, take me instead!" Hilarious? Evidently. Lurid? We'll see. Coach is sort of impressed, i guess.."As the old man owl says, that's what puts hair on a mans balls." Gary's says he will never play tennis again prompting a disapproving scowl from coach, but does so anyway. Big surprise.

Obviosuly some sort of a father son dynamic is already in the pipes. Now the subcranial patrons of the other donkeyshow, the cinema, no doubt also coming from broken homes and useless fathers, have an invitation to feel something in common with Gary. You see, my father was very much a mans man, but also pretty fucking clueless as a "father"; u kno, the guys that used to inculcate in their sons a weltanschauung, morals, a basic understanding of society, existence. I, like Gary, had to figure all of this shit out on my own. No hints, no tips. Our fathers, having "bailed" in the words of Tyler Durden probably figure that School will sort this stuff all out. No, it won't and this is why we're a society raised by women. Women dominate the eduhcational establishment. Women are not capable of raising sons to become men. This is why 1out of 5 boys in the west are on prescription psychoactives or really fucking fat. They hate young boys and want them destroyed or neutered, at best. Sorry, guy. That's the nature of women. The moslems have this figured out and that is half the reason we're bombing or subverting every other moslem country.. remember half of the votes that legitimize the systems ironheel come from women. Deep in the reptilian recesses of the feminine brain, when they are "taking a stand on defence" they are really just despatching desperate housetrained pussyhounds to kill mean men with big beards that throw rocks at strong womyn. Onwards.

So Gary makes assistant coach and life is beautiful. Then Coach drops dead from heart attack during class (none of the students know CPR, talk about vaste ov karbon), much to the chagrin of Gary who has now lost another father figure. Cut to School Top Dog appointing some pencilnecked asperger's fag and Gary to the postition of head coaches. Gary displays brilliant post-modern cunning as he passive-aggressively takes down his faculty hierarchical superior a notch. School Premier's 8 year old daughter also bursts in on this conference demanding money for an abortion of her aids ridden unwanted baby. We're now some 15 minutes in and the viewer is prompted into a shock induced laughter by these paedophilic references. When I tell you to NOT mentally picture a black dog, you are going to picture the very same dog. This is the way your brain works and this is why there are jokes based on bestiality and paedophilia.

Modern society has become so decrepit that just as the film genre of horror has "progressed" from the subtle induction of psychological terror with eerie otherworldly imagery and creeping sense of dread of the unnatural to more simple, popular thematics such as pain and the physical destruction of the body, and the power dynamics which enable it (a view that was formulated by some poaster whose name escapes me but thumbs up, guy), so has the rest of this smarmy drivel of the dream factories.
People who have experienced psychological shock aught to be able to understand that there are different types of reaction to shock. Screaming and crying are not uncommon, but so is silent terror. It would not surprise me to see a victim or witness of a automobile massacre laughing maniacally. These certain scenes I have chosen to examine have more in common with movies such as the innummerable Saw films than with cinematic comedy as I conceive it. There is a crowd dynamic to shock as there is to its cousin, terror. A crowd of people suddenly coming upon a tyrannosaurus rex will indubitably start screaming and running way, whereas some of the crowd would lie down in a fetal position and sucking their thumb, letting the terror stricken crowd escape. Only an elect few will have the presence of mind to understand what is going on and make the most of it. What does count is the group dynamic, it is what dictates our democratic lives after all. Our psyche like life itself seeks the path of least resistance and in a room full of strangers the sudden exposition of a great taboo like paedophilia will prompt laughter especially if they have all been laughing together at prior jokes.
Later on in the film the blonde blued eyed 8 year old girl will be subtly associated with sado-masochism and wiping a sticky viscous clear fluid from her face, with bestiality. Oh, you strange ritual, Chinema Ftaghn! Onwards still.

Gary later brings chocolate to the females of coaches household, his grieving midget widow and their sweet piece of ass daughter. This is a very astute observation of the nature of grief in women, which is quite mercenary. The motif itself is rather mesolithic and easily observed in many vestigial traditions of the modern. To be precise, the contender brings choice morsels of edibles to the remainder of coaches clan, to prove his capacity as provider (moreover the capacity of the conception thereof) and signifying willingness to becoming and undertaking the duties of chief sperm donor and director of fruitful actions of coaches clan. Gary's labours are not unrecruited, he receives a most symbolic reward for his self effacing efforts, dominance of Coaches pack of rottweilers, a brute breed the mastery of which has become regarded by some as a sort of a measure of manhood. Delightful is it not that the measure of a man has grown to be seen as his capacity for the domestication of dumb beasts such as his own self. Does a modern "overman", a beastmaster, stoop so low as to scoop up the shit of some animal into a plastic bag designed for the very purpose? Hah! Shit collectors, All. The inference is of course that Gary is some sort of a mans man, on the basis of some inarticulable superiority by which the dogs themselves receive him as pack leader.

Obviously, Gary is a rather botched human being, but at the very least I doubt he collects the shit of his own. The most important thing about movies, is that the stories are not to be unmentally incorporated as personal parables, like the last men do. You see, when you're engaged in righteous polemic amongst them and beseech historical examples or parables in the engagement, it is the only your own face you tread upon. The citations will merely conjure forth in the last mind, not actual historical records no matter how well scrutinized, memorized in the hallowed halls of public ed, but some hollywood travesty which has subsumed the historical mental process all healthier and simpler peoples feel, not conceptualise, in their essential being. Implore the Iliad? Brad Pitt's abortion, Troy is the unspoken response, the respite. What is important is the symbolism of the actions or juxtapositions on display, for they will be gobbled up, unthinking, with great relish, by the Id or something older still.

Now, cinematic entertainment is one of the great regulator of human affairs. Going to the cinema was a very and remains an important part of the mating process of the postmodern hominoid. Music is another such regulator, wherein a primed man and woman will attempt to ascertain some common foundation, a common empathic experience which, if found, is an indicator of a successful cohabituation, short or long. A man and a woman, whose progeny would obviously be strong and proud, displaying all the telltales of physical attraction will still go through with ridiculously convoluted procedures of testing eachothers arbitrary and thus commercial tastes. Mercenary, you see now, my most esteemed reader, and presently almost hive-insectoid in the developing rigours of its distinctions and discriminations of Able and Unable.

We are now merely some minutes in and still more is to come, and Alas, I cannot go further. I simply have no zest nor zeal availed to me to plod on through this fucking drivel yet again to complete this joyless grave taking task. I could go on forever. See it for youself, and engage. At least, it is smirk worthy.

Now, for the sinisterest facets. Having dabbled in the occult and the history of "the religious", and other rickety abodes of cards in the deepest darkest recessess of the human soul, with sulfur and bile on my breath as any man who righteously detests his domesticated contemporaries and wishes not to expell a single droplet of sweat for their furtherance, there are a number of .. what I can only deem to be explicit references to very esoteric religious motifs. The three dogs represent cerberus, the guardian of hell. The prehistoric cultural vanguards did in all probability fuck animals on religious occasion and women were bought and sold, young and old, as cattle. The relationship betwixt Gary and the coach has a sexual aspect to it, as will be evident during Gary's touch with divinity or schizophrenia, as he trips tennisballs with the amorous donkey and the Coach as a lipsticked red indian wife. Coach also makes a comeback in the form of an owl, after the spiritual triumph of tennis has been completed. Which is interesting seeing as his assessment of his employees prior bestial adventures were qualified by some obscure refrence to the wisdom of owls, owl being of some occult significance. There's more of these, whether they are of importance is well beyond my proclivities.

This however presents us with two options, neither absolute. On the one hand, this is merely a function of human existence, the religious, without which the median human being has no hope for mentally constructing a logical basis for an existence which by itself is not logical. It was our very firm insistance on logic and its practical application that hath brought us here to the very precipice of conscious existence, nay (neigh?) you not. In other words, there's no one at the helm.
On the other, "the religious" (e.g. PC) is still an incontestable facet of human existence, but with systems of information available now that were inconceivable of in the annals of human history it is possible to posit the existence of a cadre, a strata, such as the humble but bombastic author, that by its very nature is perfect for making the utmost conscious use of these deplorable faculties of an innate modern hatred of life and its processes which proceed lockstep with the immutable advance of the heavens and seasons. Which there of inspires more existential terror, I know not.

The purpose of this shibboleth is the same as that of drunkenly spitting on a random person. No film crit is going to change anything. But having hammered out these thoughts of mine in a more or less coherent form, I want to invite you to see this piece of shit flick as they are one and all, and let the invective loose. This is, if anything, the boon of these times. A great open sewer into which one can dive and find something to put the teeth into. Mostly I'm looking for deconstructive criticism of my prose and deteriorating way of thinking, for further leisurely contributions down the line. Thank you for the precious seconds of your attention and consciousness.