Saturday, May 23, 2009

Reggie Speaks!

For those of you who might be unfamiliar with the fellow whose likeness has replaced Rickey’s for the weekend, here’s a brief introduction to this charming gentleman, courtesy of J.D. Smith:

David Hirshey, a now ex-sportswriter for the New York Daily News, tells about his departure, as recounted by Alan Richman in "The Death of Sportswriting": Hirshey had heard that Reggie Jackson of the NY Yankees fantasized about harmonizing with the O Jays and decided it was worth a column. "I walked up to him at his locker, and asked, 'Reggie, I know you can carry a team. Can you carry a tune?' He was facing me. He turned around lifted a leg, farted, and said, 'How's this tune?' It was shortly thereafter that I left sportswriting."
In Reggie’s defense, that was a seriously terrible question for a sportswriter to ask. And now a few words from our proud pinstriped paterfamilias. Your mouthpiece for all things Yankee-related. Take it away, Reggie:

Hey there Yankee fans, Reggie here. Reggie Tittyfucking Jackson. I don’t know much about the uptight clown who’s been writing this blog for the last two years, but let’s get one thing straight: I don’t like big words. I don’t like words at all. You won’t see me using words like “monumental” or “equivocate.” Fuck, no. I’d rather just use my mind to lift heavy objects and toss them at Yogi Berra. Holy fuck I hate Yogi Berra.

By the way, you blogging weasels should be glad that the internet didn’t exist when I was in my prime. If it did, you’d be blogging about my antics 24/7 like they were the goddamned Tet Offensive.

Now, I’ve been called in to clear up a few errors that people make when talking about the Yankees. Things that you Yanks fans need to know about me and the Yankee Tradition. The first lie that the newspapers love to tell is that George Steinbrenner is a mean and tough guy to work for. Complete horseshit. When George was being investigated on those bogus campaign contribution charges, I went to him to comfort him. It was at that moment he told me that he’d always wanted to be a farmer. A farmer in the 18th Century who owned a cotton plantation with several thousand indentured servants who did his bidding. God bless that kind man.

Also, if anyone has seen George Steinbrenner lately, please let me know. Seriously, he’s been missing for 8 days now. His family is… well, I wouldn’t say they’re concerned, but Hank does seem to be bumping into walls a lot more than usual. Somebody said that George wandered into right field and disappeared like that “Field of Dreams” movie, but I had no idea what they were talking about because I only watch movies about the Yankees winning or Rommel in the desert. Rommel you magnificent bastard--you deserved to win that war.

The second flat out lie about me is that I dislike Jews. Again, complete garbage. I have no problems with the Hebrew people. Wait, what’s that? The author of this blog is a Jew? Holy shit I hate Jews. I bet he’s one of those fake-ass half Jews, you know the kind that just pretends to be Jewish so he can get away with making bad Jew jokes. Pop quiz: whats the difference between a Jew and a canoe? A canoe tips.

People love to gossip about how “hot-headed” I am. Bullshit. Let’s get this straight: I’m a totally respectful and polite man. Until you cross me. Like that one time when Yogi Berra tried to tell me how to swing against lefty pitchers and I threw him out of the team bus while it was traveling to Boston. That wrinkly old prick has never walked right since. Don't believe a word that fucker says about me. That man is a total liar. One time I caught him calling the traffic and weather radio station and reporting traffic jams that hadn't happened. Who does that shit? Yogi fucking Berra, that's who.

History books have gotten Billy Martin all wrong. The guy wasn’t a drunk or a mean spirited man. Let me tell you, Billy Martin was a prince and a gentleman. One time, on a long road trip in Oakland, I was feeling sick and Billy stayed up with me all night, cradling me in his arms and nursing me back to health with a bottle of his sweet sweet whiskey laced breast milk. Let's see that know nothing punk Joe Girardi do something like that.

The most annoying rumor of all is that I am a primadonna who doesn’t care about his fans. Total crap. Look, I was in an elevator a few years ago and a kid asked me for my autograph. I ignored him and told him I was going to the fifth floor and to push the button. Pushing the elevator button for that kid was a special enough moment for him. I’ll bet that little shit still shares that story with his whole family of shits every Thanksgiving. So no, stories about me being a bastard are totally untrue.

I do however moisturize my entire body with baboon's milk.*

It is true that all Yankee players are required to keep their hair a certain length. But did you also know that George Steinbrenner keeps these hair clippings in a large bag in his office for talismanic purposes? True story. One night, I snuck into his office to take a peek. I found the bag of hair, opened it, and inhaled deeply. The grease of Randy Johnson’s mullet, Thurman Munson’s mustache, and Don Mattingly’s thick sideburns blended together into a powerful aroma. It smelled of the No. 4 Subway, of 26 World Series rings, of old hot dog water. It smelled like…. victory.

I’m pretty sure that Yogi Berra is the Son of Sam killer.

I will say this much, after that Babington Plot mess, I’m no longer allowed to set foot in England. Shit, I can’t even be in the same town when the QE2 comes into port. Fucking limeys.

*h/t Adam for the baboon milk moisturizing joke. Adam's lewdness knows no bounds.

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Thursday, May 21, 2009

Announcing a Slight Change Here at RwR...

This weekend, the baseball apocalypse looms. Thanks to the scheduling devilry of interleague play, Yankees fans will root for the Mets (uh yeah, good luck with that guys) and Mets fans will root for the Yankees. And so in honor of this weekend, we become…Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Riding With Reggie, a thrilling new sports blog which pays homage to all things Yankees! It’s two day mission:

  • To explore strange new worlds of smugness and baseball illiteracy

  • To pay homage to each and every Yankee tradition, no matter how minuscule or trivial

  • To provide regular updates on Chien-Ming Wang’s thrilling single-A career

  • To commission a YouTube tribute video commemorating the life and times of Suzyn Waldman, set to the theme of “God Bless America” and featuring meerkats

  • To celebrate the Yankees, regardless of the actual outcome of any game. 10-0 loss? No biggie—they committed zero errors! Johnny Damon’s uniform was nice and clean!

  • To introduce the adjective “Jeterian” into the English lexicon

  • To compliment C.C. Sabathia’s masterful ability to pitch despite being 24 months pregnant

  • To create a needlepoint cushion bearing Joba Chamberlain’s face for Ms. Henderson (this counts as your wedding gift sweetie)

  • To talk like John Sterling for 48 hours straight, employing the following phrases on a regular basis: “azure blue skies,” “them’s the breaks,” and “cut on and missed!”

  • To not fixate on the fact that the Mets could’ve signed Orlando Hudson, Jose Reyes’ calf is shredded, Carlos Delgado needs hip replacement surgery, the entire lineup is in shambles, Jerry Manuel is shaping up to be an even worse coach than Willie Randolph, or that GARY SHEFFIED IS NOW THE EVERYDAY LEFT FIELDER FOR THE NEW YORK METS... GOD FUCKING DAMNIT THE PLANE HAS CRASHED INTO THE GODDAMNED MOUNTAIN.
Did we miss anything in that last one? No? Enjoy the shitty interleague weekend folks. Give serious thought to going outside.

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Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Your Oligatory Wedding Update

And now for a discussion of weighty matters. With the Henderson’s June 20th wedding just a mere month away, Rickey has much on his mind at the moment. With each passing day, the monumental day grows larger on the horizon. Exciting and wonderful things such as buying a house and starting a family together await Rickey and Ms. Henderson, but today we must discuss an even bigger and more pressing issue: Rickey’s wedding band.

Now, Rickey isn’t one to wear a lot of jewelry, but when it comes to purchasing a symbol of his love and devotion for the most important person in his life, you damn well better believe he’s going to splurge on a little bling. After all, Ms. Henderson got to rock the ice for over a year, and we feel that it’s Rickey’s turn now.

For months, online wedding band vendors have dogged Rickey with offers of free tungsten carbide rings in exchange for advertising space here on Riding With Rickey. This never ceases to amuse Rickey because four of our readers are already married and our other seven single readers seem to be perfectly content staying in on a Friday night and masturbating angrily to reruns of the Bob Newhart Show. Also, tungsten carbide is about as valuable as Carlos Beltran’s mole excretions. So needless to say, Rickey turned down the offer.

And so Rickey headed to his trusty Libyan jeweler to shop for a wedding band and/or some plutonium. Quickly realizing that gold is a fairly boring metal and adamantium wedding bands don’t exist and even if they did, they’d probably be ridiculously pricey, Rickey finally settled upon a platinum ring. Nothing too gaudy, just a plain classic band. Behold, the precious:Note the heavenly ethereal glow basking the ring. That, friends, is no accident. Yes, we know, Rickey has weird looking hands. If we sold advertising space here at RwR we could probably have afforded to hire a professional hand model, but we didn’t so deal with it.

Rickey’s had the ring for a few weeks now, and he’s been extremely curious what it feels like to wear it for a day. You know, a sort of test run. Ms. Henderson has flatly ordered him not to put it on until the wedding, but then again, she also told Rickey not to watch “Angels & Demons” without her and look how well that turned out. No, Rickey had to know what it felt like to wear the ring for a day. Rickey is a curious cat, you see. And so, in the name of bold experimentation, Rickey carefully slipped the ring on. Below follows a running diary of the events that followed.

7:05AM: Nothing happened. Rickey didn’t turn invisible, Nazgul didn’t shriek in the distance, and there was a notable lack of hobbit-related shenanigans in the Henderson abode. For a moment, the room did seem to turn a sepia hue, but upon close analysis, this turned out to be the morning light. Well this was a whole shitload of money well spent.

8:34AM: Here’s a fun fact about platinum—it’s ridiculously heavy. So heavy that while walking, you need to adjust your posture to compensate for it or your left hand will drop to the ground and you’ll be stuck walking in circles around it.

11:15AM: Rickey leaves the apartment and hops in the car, ever mindful to steer carefully, lest his leaden left hand cause the vehicle to swerve off the road.

11:30AM: Rickey lends assistance to a deep sea underwater mining facility. Shortly thereafter, a series of calamities occur and the facility is quickly flooded with water. Rickey is able to avoid being trapped in a chamber flooding with water by jamming his hand in front of a closing door—the ring on his hand being the only thing preventing the door from slamming shut and trapping him. Rickey bravely escapes his watery confines.

[editor’s note: our bad, none of this actually happened. While driving, Rickey often likes to daydream that he is the lead character in major summer blockbuster movies -- in this case, Ed Harris in “The Abyss” -- this probably goes a long way to explain why Rickey failed his first two road tests]

12:09PM: Huzzah, the investment pays off! Somebody notices the damn thing! While on the supermarket checkout line, a fellow next to Rickey comments on the ring and says “aren’t you a little young to be married?” Rickey takes this in stride and calmly informs the gentleman that back on the compound where Rickey grew up, it’s not unusual for juveniles as young as seven to marry their special betrothed. The dude takes a step back.

3:34:PM: Rickey arrives home, deems the ring test run successful and attempts to remove the ring.

3:35PM: Uh, it’s not coming off.

3:36PM: Fuck.

4:15PM: How the hell is it that after 4.6 billion years of evolution, people like Rickey are afflicted with joints that are larger than the rest of their fingers? Damn you Charles Darwin, and your little pet beagle too.

4:20: Darkness closes in.

4:30PM: After little Vaseline and a whole lotta twisting, the ring finally comes off. Whew. Rickey won’t be trying that again anytime soon.

And now for your obligatory sappy photo to wrap up the post:

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Monday, May 18, 2009

Watching Bad Movies So You Don't Have To: Rickey Reviews "Angels & Demons"

"To pay to see this movie would be an affront unto God, Man, and Good Taste" -The Gospel of Rickey, 5:18

Pop quiz moviegoers: what do you get when you make a movie featuring a lead actor who hasn't made a good film since "Bonfire of the Vanities," shot by a director who hasn't made a good film since "Apollo 13," based on a book by a guy who hasn't written a good novel since... well ever? You get one seriously terrible movie.

"Angels & Demons" kicks off much like any other subtle intellectual movie about the conflict between science and religion: with a member of the Illuminati breaking into a particle collider facility using the old "gouge out somebody's eyeball to get past the retinal scanner" trick, making off with a vial of highly destructive anti-matter, and then planning to annihilate the Vatican and all of Rome in a 5 kiloton anti-matter fueled cataclysmic blast. The Vatican gets word of this and a closed door meeting is convened consisting of a lot of billowing red robes and incense and a consensus is reached along the lines of "Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, we're having a tough enough time getting our priests to keep their hands off altar boys--we ARE NOT equipped to prevent the detonation of an anti-matter bomb." And so the Catholic Church does what any other organization would do in these sorts of situations, they hire a consultant.

Enter stage right, Tom Hanks as Professor Robert Langdon. A man whose intelligence the movie goes to strenuous lengths to point out. Marvel as Tom Hanks mumbles aloud in Latin! He stares pensively at marble statues! He turns pieces of parchment upside down! He sees symbols and icons that non-academics like us could never perceive! He can detect when people are jetlagged! He went to Exeter! (Rickey can totally testify to the intellectual capabilities of Exeter men, by the way. A college buddy of Rickey's who attended Exeter once got rip-roaring drunk and tumbled down a flight of stairs and upon reaching the bottom immediately and correctly proclaimed that he had fractured his fifth metacarpal. Let's see one of you public school lackeys try to pull that off). Tom Hank’s character at first refuses the Vatican’s plea for help, because they’ve been denying him access to their library resources which he needs to complete his book about religious iconography. Even worse, he continues to gripe about his incomplete book throughout the entire damned movie, presumably because he’s worried about losing his tenure at whatever university he teaches at that’s cool with him squinting a lot and walking around like a complete prick.

After some cajoling, Tom Hanks finally agrees to aid the Vatican and sets off for Rome, the location in which both the Illuminati and director Ron Howard have chosen to hold their audience hostage for two agonizing hours. Hanks, with a sassy female scientist in tow, scurries around Rome trying to track down an Illuminati terrorist whose nefarious plan is unraveled by his ill advised decision to commit his crimes in easily discovered locations marked by Renaissance statues pointing directly at them. There's enough sweeping camera angles, flowing red robes, and pageantry in this film that one has a tough time believing that the Catholic Church didn't make the movie themselves. In actuality, the Catholic Church forbade Ron Howard from shooting "Angels & Demons" in Vatican City, apparently unaware of the benefits of any media coverage that distracts the public that we live in a day and age in which it's necessary for a religious organization to buy an insurance policy for pedaresty.

The action in “Angels & Demons” is completely uninspired. Trust us, you’ve seen enough movies shot in Italy with small European cars whizzing through crowded streets not to be impressed by this one. One thrilling scene even features Hanks trying to escape from the hallowed Vatican archives as oxygen is drained from an airtight reading room (and you thought senior citizens breaking wind at your local library was bad). The main bad guy is a bespectacled member of the Illuminati, a secret society introduced into the movie’s plot to pander to the highly coveted tinfoil hat/ten sided die owning demographic.
After much scurrying about the prominent tourist spots of Rome, the movie climaxes with a heroic priest played by Ewan McGregor grabbing the anti-matter bomb right as it’s about to detonate, hopping in a helicopter and flying it way the hell up into the sky, then parachuting out at the last moment as the bomb goes off. Call us nuts, but a movie that takes itself so seriously really shouldn't have parachuting priests in it. McGregor then lands in St. Peter’s Square and the amazed crowd promptly demands that he be anointed as the next Pope (the previous one was murdered—don’t ask). And this was when Rickey stopped watching. Twenty minutes remained in the movie, so we’re assuming that Ewan McGregor turns out to be the bad guy and that Clint Howard is made Pope, thus ushering in a brave new era for creepy pederasts everywhere.

To refer to the themes that “Angels & Demons” plays with as actual ideas would be an insult to sentient thought, but the central conceit of the movie seems to revolve around the conflict between science and religion. Kudos to Dan Brown and Ron Howard for dredging up a debate that’s every bit as fresh as Galileo’s corpse and continues to rage on to this day in yawn inducing poorly attended core curriculum courses across the nation. People refer to the “controversy” surrounding this Dan Brown nonsense and it irritates Rickey. Just like the Da Vinci Code, it’s all manufactured nonsense originating from a poorly written and misinformed book. Rickey was far more hyped and buzzed when Gillette added a fifth blade to their razors. If this movie actually was controversial, it might be interesting to watch, but no, it’s far worse than that. It’s a bore.

CNN ran a story this morning about how this movie was No. 1 at the Box Office, then they ran a story about a car bomb exploding in Iraq. Both stories elicited the same response from Rickey. Rickey’s verdict: avoid this one at all costs. And if you're one of the folks who contributed to this movie's $48 million opening weekend at the box office, say 56 Hail Marys and smack yourself upside the head.

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Thursday, May 14, 2009

Your Weekly Softball Report: The First Three Games

Ah coed softball, amateur sporting at it's most mediocre. A game that requires very little athletic prowess--just a $50 check, a pair of cleats and glove, and a willingness to subject yourself to the ridicule of others. Granted, Rickey has joined a beer league and the stakes are completely nonexistent, but that doesn't preclude him him from taking this venture quite seriously. Now, you'd think that hours spent watching professional baseball on television would transfer over into some sort of knowledge of how to actually play the damn game. And in Rickey's case, you'd be completely mistaken. Rickey is... how do you say... well... very not good.

The good news for Rickey's struggling softball team is that they haven't yet played a game that has necessitated the umpire to invoke the mercy rule. But at 0-3 with 9 games remaining in the regular season, there's still plenty of time for that. Below follows a brief summary of the relevant events from the first three games in which Rickey's softball team has participated.

Game 1: In which the season gets off to a most inauspicious start. Rickey, completely unaware that his team's color is red, shows up in a white logoed t-shirt. No jerseys are worn--everybody just wears red shirts like a motley crew of expendable Star Trek characters. Amongst the team members, there are murmurs of some season long ago when everybody was organized enough to design and purchase nice jerseys with their names on them, but those halcyon days are apparently long gone.

While creating the lineup, Rickey's coach had a complete lapse in judgment and decided to put Rickey at third base. For most of the game, Rickey channeled his inner D-Wright and performed reasonably adequately. The highlights of the game include Rickey expertly fielding a ground ball on a hop and proceeding to throw it 25 feet to the right of first base directly into the woods, resulting in a double, and another play in which Rickey deftly stopped a bullet of a hit by placing his upper torso directly in the path of the oncoming ball, with complete disregard for his physical well being (and the fact that he was wearing a glove on his left hand). Apparently the sternum makes a loud hollow thumping noise when hit with a ball travelling at 45mph. Rickey had every other part of the play right -- charge the ball and get your body in front of it -- but had simply forgotten to catch the damn ball, instead opting to bring it to a complete stop by blocking it with his chest like it was a soccer ball.

Judging by the complete silence that overtook the field following this play, we can tell you that Rickey's patented "sternum blocking maneuver" is a helluva great intimidation technique if you're trying to convince people how much of a softball badass you are. Next Mets game, we'd love to see Ryan Church pull this move on a hard hit ball and then let loose a sustained primal roar.

At bat, Rickey performed surprisingly well, even getting a nice base hit resulting in a single. With one out and his team trailing in the bottom of the seventh inning, Rickey realized that this was his time to pounce. Choosing to interpret the first base coach's advice to not get caught off base on an infield fly ball as "take 10 steps to second base and remain perfectly motionless between first and second base when the batter pops out" Rickey got caught in an embarrassing game ending double play. In Rickey's defense:

1) Even without that error, there's absolutely no way his team would've overcome their seven run deficit, and,

2) Were a tyrannosaurus rex to suddenly appear to the field, Rickey would've been perfectly safe (their vision is movement based).

Game 2: Citing a "conflicting obligation," and then gazing distantly away, Rickey weasels his way out of the game. Reports come in that the game was a close one, with Rickey's team losing 8 to 9. Under no circumstances are we willing to attribute the team's improved performance to Rickey's absence.

Game 3: This game showcased some marked improvement on Rickey's part as he landed a solid hit directly to the pitcher and somehow managed to beat out the throw to first base. The ump, apparently perfectly content with calling the play from behind home plate, yelled "safe" and lo and behold, Rickey was standing proud at first. Several hits later from his team and Rickey was sent scampering home, deciding curiously to not stop running until he had made back it to his team's bench. Rickey's time spent in the highly coveted and physically demanding position of right field was mercifully uneventful. Rickey's second at bat before he voluntarily removed himself from the game consisted of a weak dribbler following by the opposing team sarcastically congratulating their pitcher, "way to squeeze him, Jerry!" Ouch--that's gonna make Rickey drink extra tonight.

Then, following a barrage of runs from the opposing team, their coach pulls the ultimate indignity: he pulls the pitcher and replaces him with a ringer (because tossing underhand is so physically taxing). For a moment, some poor pitching from the opposing team's bullpen looks like it just might let Rickey's softball team back in the game, a development that Rickey sagely commented on while sitting on the bench and removing his cleats and getting ready to head towards the parking lot. To the surprise of no one, the rally is short-lived and Rickey's team loses the game.

And this recaps the first three softball outings of the season. As you can imagine, Rickey has yet to ask Ms. Henderson to attend one of his games. We'll be back next week with another edition of ...The Softball Report.

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Wednesday, May 13, 2009

The Teabag Zone

[h/t to Adam for lending his photoshop skills to the post]

(music) Da da da da .......da da da da.

"You're traveling to another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound... but of mind. You're on a journey into a wondrous land, whose boundaries are only that of the imagination. You're entering a place where socialist re-education centers are sprouting across the land like mushrooms, where federal police are raiding trailer camps to confiscate assault weapons from the gun racks of law-abiding hunters, where right-thinking patriot vigilantes patrol the streets "armed and dangerous" to protect themselves from social activists and homosexuals infiltrating the schools and the voting ballots, where activist judges are bending the laws in the dead of night to serve their liberal agendas, where armies of IRS agents are stealing taxes from hard-working citizens and corporate billionaires. You're in a world of a million "what ifs?" and a billion "who knows?" where the sun goes around the earth, Charles Darwin never existed, and a zillion new life forms are created out of the blue by supernatural intervention, a world of dangerous aliens and terrorists behind every tree. You're about to enter right-wing talk show America and the Teabag Zone."

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Monday, May 11, 2009

Your Obligatory "Star Trek" Review: Of Warp Core Ejections, Sandwiches, Ostentatious Lens Flares, and General Space-Related Tomfoolery

Hot damn, Star Trek is watchable again. Cool, even. This popcorn movie is a breath of fresh air for those of us who have suffered through an endless stream of uninspired and downright terrible Trek television series and film adaptations (they made an entire movie about rescuing humpback whales for christssakes). This one is an out and out crowd pleaser. Fans of the series will be delighted by the movie's faithfulness to the core sentiments and ideas of the Star Trek universe as well as the many nods to the original series. Casual moviegoers will have a blast with the pacing and action. And for the rabid Trekkies who nitpick stuff like the nacelles on the Enterprise not looking quite right, well quite frankly, this is a better movie than you deserve. You jackasses can live long and prosper in your mother's basement for all Rickey cares.

Whereas past Trek movies have felt like plodding exercises rehashing hackneyed plots about androids trying to be human or whether or not to disrupt the once peaceful lives of creepy space Mormons in order to save them from an interstellar mist, this movie just feels fun and original. Space is once again full of wonder and weird beasties. We're talking really good pulp science fiction--everything the Star Wars prequels should have been.

The film captures the excitement of a young crew hopping aboard a newly minted Enterprise and venturing into the interstellar void together. It's exactly what enthusiast of the property have been clamoring for: a handful of brave and cocky explorers in space, trading quips and playing fast and loose with the laws of physics, all rough and tumble and whatnot. The movie really gets the spirit of the franchise right. For example, one scene showcases the crew tinkering around with the engines of the Enterprise or something and somehow piloting a starship at faster than light speeds smack into into Titan's atmosphere, because they pretty much figured: golly, think of what what fun we'll all have!

Now normally, Rickey's not a huge fan of origin stories and their need to retell everything from scratch, but in this case, it was necessary and it works wonderfully. Is it a reboot? Technically, no. In a very clever plot twist, the movie's villain Nero travels back in time from the Next Generation era to the Federation's formative years, hell-bent on altering history. And he does, thereby effectively giving the studio carte blanche to do what they want with the characters in future sequels. What was once canon is now reborn anew. Yes, there are a few supernova sized plot holes in the script, but they're completely redeemed by the acting. The characters are very much the ones we all know and love: Chris Pine perfectly captures the cockiness of Jim Kirk, Karl Urban's impression of Dr. McCoy is so pitch perfect it's scary, and much to Rickey's pleasant surprise, Zachary Quinto's Spock shines as the real star of the movie. It's terrific fun to watch the movie fire on all cylinders as rejuvenated versions of Sulu, Chekov, and Montgomery Scott all shine. Another hour could've been tacked on to the movie's 120 minute run time and that would've been just fine with Rickey.

To give any plot elements away would be a great disservice to those of you who haven't seen the movie yet, so we'll boil down the important stuff for you into pithy bullet point format:

- In the future, there are sandwiches.

- Spock is a straight up pimp.

- James T. Kirk owns a copy of "Ill Communication" by the Beastie Boys. (h/t to Adam for the funny)

- Fencing actually has practical real world applications, thereby completely validating Rickey's jaunt on the high school fencing team.

- Director J.J. Abrahms LOVES lens flares. They're in every goddamned shot. The artistic insinuation being that the future is so brilliant and bright that it practically shines off the screen at the audience. It's a little grating, but we're assuming it was done primarily to render the pirated camcorder versions over at TV Shack nigh unviewable (not that Rickey would know anything about that. Ahem).

-Dudes wearing red shirts have cruelly short life spans.

Rickey's final verdict: go see it, pronto. It's most likely the best summer flick you'll see this year that doesn't involve giant robots punching each other.

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