Yes indeed. Last week’s entry, the psychotic scrotum-savaging Honey Badger, was the very pinnacle of badassery. Indeed, we have been forced to mine the depths of prehistory to find a manly beast that even approaches rivaling its balls-out awesome insanity. Fortunately, we found this guy, ensconced somewhere within Satan’s rectum.
Tyrannosaurus Rex shows nary a inkling of regard for bald dudes sitting on the shitter, and will merrily chew their ballsack without heeding locked doors or those little occupied signs that more upmarket toilet models sport. Rex brandishes a middle finger with abandon at social etiquette (did it even flush that shithouse toilet when it was done eating man-flesh? It did not) but just how man-tastic is this monstrous miscreant, this infamous Tyrant Lizard? Gather your courage and cork your asshole, and we’ll take a look.
Mr T (Rex) would certainly never get on no plane, fool! Its majestic stature - forty feet long and thirteen feet tall at the hip - would render it quite the safety hazard aboard our contemporary jet airliners. (Many a shitstorm, incidentally, has erupted when huge-ass carnivorous dinosaurs protested at the extortionate pricing of airline food or got its massive dino-bollocks caught in the door. Or in the cockpit, if you will.) Nonetheless, we’ll concede that such dimensions are rather meager in comparison to some of the motherf--kers that were cruising the planet during this guy’s period. The Tyrannosaurus is, perhaps, the little nerdy kid at school that got his head intimately introduced to a flushing toilet that some bastard had recently shat in.
Did Stephen Spielberg, movie maestro extraordinaire and possessor of Hollywood’s most shit-tastic beard, care about this shortcoming? Very much not. In one interview, he was(n’t) heard to proclaim, “Nuts to that. The Tyrannosaurus Rex is one dangerous mofo. Check him out in Jurassic Park, you’ll shit.” Lo, the most notorious member of this extinct species had its reputation galvanized for eternity. There’s jeep-chasing and throwing the eviscerated corpse of a raptor at priceless sculptures, all exacerbated by that iconic roar that seems to announce, check me out. I have manplums like cannonballs. Rex’s reign was unopposed until the final iteration of the trilogy, wherein that vast bipedal crocodile with monsterism and a sail on its back for no perceivable reason planted a ton or two of clawed scaly jackboot right in our man’s ‘nads, and he was unceremoniously retired.
Amongst those with a penchant for science-yness, a debate lingers like a noxious dose of flatulence (the sort that could melt your hair from several feet away and makes you fervently wish to punch your own nose in the face). Some strive to portray Tyrannosaurus Rex as, first and foremost, a scavenger. Our badass predator becomes, conversely, a piteous hobo that would shuffle up to a crew of larger beasts and entreat, ‘I say, chaps, might I take a bite or two on the ass of this blood-bleeding mess on the ground when you’re done with it?’In an abysmal English accent, presumably.
However accurate this conjecture may be, don’t get the fallacious impression that we’re just taking the piss here. (That would be an outrageous assumption.) Several million years after our deaths, will our names remain synonymous with horrifying, formidable awesome? Even Grandma Egotastic, whom we once beheld biting her way through the lock on a kitchen cabinet to get at her whiskey, couldn’t achieve such a feat. As a salutation to the beast, here’s the grandest of grand movie entrances: