The Meaty Facade of Vin Diesel
posted by Kristen on 6/30/03
Being that I'm a somewhat demure southern belle, it takes a lot to really and truly piss me off. Okay, actually I'm more like Rogue with just a little less accent and a lot less mutant power. For example, my boyfriend having a wife in New Orleans and forgetting to tell me would make me mildly irritated. But him helping Mr. Sinister gather the Marauders for the Morlock Massacre would bring out my rage. Not that I'd ever leave my lover in Antarctica without at least a jacket, but you get the picture. Hell hath no fury like a woman crossed, but Hell hath never produced a fury quite like a southern woman inflamed. And when you get one with diluted Irish blood…well, you've seen "Gone With the Wind," haven't you?
The South's shorts will rise again.
Now, that being said, how we as human beings choose to annoy our fellow man is quite subjective. Some people send chain emails, some become born-again Christians, others memorize and actually use pick-up lines from the backs of shot glasses at Spencer's Gifts. And then there's that slim section of the population who merely exist. And just by doing that, they irritate, infuriate and incense us to superhuman levels of wrath, and single-handedly turn otherwise placated persons into rampaging bitches.
To be honest, I've had a few of these people on my list. Jennifer Lopez, Joan Rivers, this girl named Kelley in one of my acting classes who looked like Monica Lewinsky. Come to think of it, a lot of people piss me off, but I'm usually too much of a lady (or too apathetic) to do anything about it. But recently, I've been forced to add a new name to the list and even lifting my hand to pencil in his greasy handle so thoroughly repulsed me that I couldn't keep down solid food for two days. Chances are you've heard of him. Chances are even better that you've seen one or two of his movies. And chances are damn good that if you're a fan of his, you should probably stop reading now, because hate mail will be publicly mocked.
"I'll sell anything I got. Want my eye on a stick?"
He calls himself Vin Diesel, which has an even split of being either copied off the side of a German oil tanker or the world's shittiest outcome of the Porn Star Name Game. He has muscles that rival the Hulk's, although he owes his more to prolonged exposure to steroids than gamma radiation. He has no hair, likely an after-effect of shooting up all that booster-juice. And he has somehow risen up the Hollywood Ladder o' Overhyped-Shit to become a quote-unquote movie quote-unquote star. Why the liberal use of quotes, you ask? Because any five year-old film buff will tell you that two hours of the Diesel mug mucking up a theatre screen is hardly worthy to be called a "movie." And anyone who hasn't been sniffing the sealant on their PS2 for the past couple of years can tell you that a human-sized piece of meat certainly does not deserve the title "star."
My mother, if she ever got past using the AOL help menu and actually found W-D to read this, would probably say something like, "Where did all this anger come from, Kristen?" It's very simple and clinical, Mom. My intense hatred for this slab of pork loin in a wife-beater emerged in my subconscious the day I saw three commercials for three different movies with the same basic plot starring said hunk of dead pig, and here's the kicker, in a row. Being a reasonably intelligent movie-goer, I do tend to get exasperated when processed, packaged headcheese is continuously chucked at me under the pretense of being exciting cinema. The fact that three of these attempts to swindle me out of eight bucks were coming out at the same time really got under my skin. It probably could have been anyone starring in them, even Mother Teresa (you know…if she wasn't dead), and I'd be here writing an article about skinny nuns in bedsheets.
A great woman
A great meathead
The fact that the "star" of these flicks looked like he'd just gotten out of San Quentin on sexual battery charges only fueled my growing resentment over the fact that I have to share my beloved planet with him. After that black day, I couldn't stop into Eckerd's for a fucking box of tampons without seeing four or five magazines shamefully promoting him as the next big thing in Hollywood. Which in layman's terms means just the opposite. Small penis. Usually, I write off guys who use hot-rod cars and action movies to make up for what nature denied them, but with the Dieselator…I just found my rage growing by leaps and bounds.
And then came the day that I heard my otherwise completely sane, completely tasteful friend utter the worst words conceivable. While flipping through a magazine, she looked over at me and said, "Vin Diesel is really hot." My father taught me how to load, clean and fire a rifle when I was eight years old. I'd never wanted to exercise those skills until that moment. And it wouldn't have been on my friend. No, it would have required a road trip to Hollywood and an extensive search for the chunk of beefcake before I could act on my impulse. Because truly, it's not my friend's fault that she became hypnotized by the shiny reflection off his bald, baby head; it's only his fault for having one. And forcing it into the public eye.
"I wanted to be Spiderman, but they insisted on hiring someone with talent."
Normally, this would be the time that I would deconstruct a celebrity's movies, making comments on their acting abilities or lack thereof, but the truth is, I've never seen one of the Dieselator's movies (unless you count "Saving Private Ryan," but it's not like I could see much of the movie through my two-hour flood of tears), and I have no intention of ever seeing one if I can help it. And the only way I couldn't help it is if someday down the line he gets hired to play Juggernaut in X-Men 4 or something. You might consider this a handicap to writing an article about Vin Diesel. Then, if you're a fan of his, you might bombard me with emails about how I shouldn't blast something until I've tried it, or put people down without watching their work first. Let me go on record now as saying that it really doesn't matter if I've seen "XXX" or "The Fast and the Furious" or whatever, because this article isn't about my hatred for Vin Diesel movies. It's about my hatred for Vin Diesel.
So, how can I hate someone I've never met, you ask? Well, I've never met Saddaam Hussein either, but I'm not about to invite him over for iced tea and pecan pie (you know…if he wasn't most likely dead). I think though if I were to dig around and find out the real root of my issues with this mini-man, it would boil down to one sentence, found on a clearly disturbed fan's tribute page.
"Vin also worked as a bouncer, for 9 years, in which he is currently writing a screen play about called Doormen."
Besides the obvious problems with the grammar that made my English diploma curl up around the edges in pain, it was quite obvious to me why my hatred was perfectly grounded and reasonable. Vin Diesel is trying to re-make "Road House."
Hasn't Paul already convinced us that "Road House" is a landmark piece of movie history and that never, ever, under any circumstances should anyone try to remake such a shining classic? Or was that Matthew talking about "Casablanca" and Bennifer? In any case, it's just a well-known fact to anyone who has half an ounce of un-steroid-pumped brain matter that heating up old shit in a new microwave is never going to give you filet mignon. Bouncers just don't make all that great of a subject for a two-hour piece of art. I know a bouncer, and he likes to do two things: threaten people with his stunner and make passes at women other than his wife. If you think you can make an interesting movie out of this profession, sit your ass back down on the couch and keep drinking until you pass out. It's never gonna happen, Spielburg.
The Vin bio in which I found this accursed statement then went on to say,
"Vin is going around looking for places to film Doorman at and apparently he found a perfect bar in Chicago... but from what i've heard, it's a hardcore gay bar."
It's too easy, sugah. It's just way, way too easy. I guess it goes without saying that my poor, blinded friend better keep on pining for her Diesel machine of love, 'cause he's only plowin' for the Queer As Folk. And really, couldn't you tell just by looking at him? He has the gleam in his eye of a man who simply can't wait to choke down some sausage.
Disclaimer: Kristen is in no way homophobic, having been one of two straight people at a demonstration to change the laws that currently ban same-sex marriages. She just loves it when Hollywood's "sexiest" "leading" "men" get caught at the glory hole.
Still not convinced that my disgust is justified? Take a look at this.
Hmm…pork roast. Vegetarians need not apply. By the way, that caption was fucking hilarious if you're an MST3K fan.
The moral to all of this, if there even is a moral, which is fairly unlikely, is that anger doesn't always have to be a bad thing. Like Storm said to Nightcrawler, "sometimes anger can help you survive." Of course, she also told Toad that him being struck by lightning was just like everyone else being struck by lightning, so I guess I should be more hesitant when using her as an example. Regardless, my passionate dislike for Vin Diesel helps me survive in a society that's trying to push him into the stratosphere of pop culture. As long as I just sit here and write bitter articles about how I'd like to knock him off that shiny pedestal he's balancing so precariously upon, it's all good. No one gets hurt, and it's not like I’m going to be responsible for puncturing any holes in his massive, helium-inflated ego. It would take a geek of much greater strength than me to do that.
Can I find anything redeemable about Vin Diesel, you ask? Actually, I've thought a lot about it and I came up with a short list. So, nyah, nyah, nyah.
REEDEMABLE THINGS ABOUT VIN DIESEL
1) If you were stranded on a desert island with him you could use his head as a reflective surface to signal rescuers.
2) He hasn't done any 10-10-220 commercials. Yet.
3) Even with all the workouts (steroids) that he does, my breasts are still bigger than his.
4) He's only eight dollars a pound at your local movie theatre.
5) This picture.
"My agent said picking your nose in public is hot this year."
6) There's only five minutes left on his allotted fifteen.
And I'm counting down the seconds.