chris-littlechild - November 13, 2012
To descend back into the shit-stained realm of (largely fabricated) prehistoric badassery, only one beast rivals the notoriety of Tyrannosaurus Rex. Similarly infused with Spielburgian bravado (which couldn't have been plainer, short of it announcing: "Hey, dude! Check out my massive dino-bollocks!") for Jurassic Park and its sequels, it's Velociraptor. Originally meaning Quick Plunderer, the movies opt instead to define these dudely dudes as terrifying, insatiable death machines from the depths of Satan's ballsack.
The inaugural movie cast this furious ball of claws, teeth and bloody disembowelment as the primary antagonist. To achieve this distinction, when there's also an angry mofo of Mr T (Rex)'s caliber -he stillain't gettin' on no plane- cruising about and devouring dudes while they're trying to take a shit, is quite remarkable. This isn't to say that the Tyrannosaurus didn't get to ham it up for the crowd on intermittent occasions (the huge hairy-assed diva threatened to barricade itself in its trailer if it didn't get that achingly melodramatic bellowing as theWhen dinosaurs ruled the world banner falls meanderingly to the ground scene; it was seen raising its tiny, lumpen middle finger at producers through the window as negotiations ensued) but Velociraptor was the true ‘opponent' of our intrepid heroes, Kid That Got Electrocuted and Guy With Shit Hat.
One of these bastards, after all, ate movie maestro Samuel L Jackson's arm right off, before seemingly having the chutzpah to replace it with a craptastic plastic replica that deceived nobody at all, ever. That's how few shits the Velociraptor gives. That tail protruding above the long grass business? Several kinds of holy shit converged there. This instance also reiterated the bastardry advantage that these guys have over their huge, cumbersome cousins: stealthtacular shenanigans. Rex, as Jeff Goldblum demonstrated while he was dicking around with those two cups of piss, can be heard approaching from somewhere in the next State; fat bastard that he is.
"Where's the Tyrannosaurus?"
"See that shitstorm in the distance? That giantcrap in my mother's mouth monster? That's him."
"Ah, so it is. I didn't see him for a moment. Odd, when one considers thathe's roughlythe size of a house that's attending a fancy dress party dressed as a larger house."
Their clandestine hunt-ery and remarkable mental capacity (doorknob turning, surfing the internet for porn, these guys can do it all. Not that the latter takes any excessive effort. We once inputted kittens and flowers and... y'know, that shit into a search engine and were presented with an image of a massive pair of bollocks. That, at least, was our story when Mrs Egotastic beheld the screen) render the Raptor -to paraphrase that twat with the utterly shit beard in Jaws- a perfect killing machine.
Alas, it's all bullshittery and lies. Indeed, All Bullshittery and Lies is the title of a huge tedious book on the subject; written by the kind of science-y bastard with fancy letters after his name that demands we heed his words, lest he smite our mansacks with a ladle. He reveals that the physiology of the Jurassic Park Raptor is more akin to the species Deinonychus. The reality of Velociraptor? A six-foot-long (half of which constitutes tail, naturellement) two-foot-tall midget with feathers. Possibly flamboyant pink ones. It does retain the clawtastically murderous toenail, but we'd venture that the beast reserves it for performing limp-wrist motions. While that mouth right there is nothing you'd want clamped, barnacle-fashion, to your ‘nads ("Hey ma, fetch the band-aids!Manthat smarts!"), it's plain that Velociraptor's manpoints have scraped clean through the bottom of the barrel to the muddy, muddy ground beneath. In summation, they're as physically imposing as a puppy with no legs.
Finally, for your delectation, we present the shenanigans in the kitchen, the enduring legacy of these mofos:
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