Hey there. Wow, kinda smells weird in here. Okay, who left all of these wet towels on the floor? Seriously, what the hell, guys. There's garbage under the towels, too. God, I know I've been gone for a while, but where do you all get off trashing the place in my absence? Shameless, the lot of you. This blog is my home away from home, show some respect, you filthy vagabonds.
Clean this shit up, and say 50 Hail Hestons as penance.
So, it's that time of year again. Time to break out the Yule log and egg nog, blast Def Leppard's greatest hits over the loudspeakers you installed outside of your home—much to the chagrin of your neighbors—and once again undertake your yearly attempt at shoving an entire set of Jenga blocks into your urethra. Festive.
That's right, it's the Christmas season, and you don't get to judge me for my traditions, because religious freedom, fuck you, signed America. And you know what Christmas means, right? That's right: narrowly avoiding a DUI because you were dressed as Santa and nobody was able to identify you as you fled the scene of the wreck.
It also means gifts, if you're into that sort of thing, and if anyone loves you enough to give you any (they don't).
Pop a squat on poppa's lap and receive the greatest gift of all: my love
Friends, I'd like to take a moment and be real with you, here. As a man who worships at the feet of Zeus—the mightiest of Olympus, hallowed be His beard—I find the Christmas season to be woefully noninclusive. Sure, one could make the point that Christmas doesn't have to be about a baby born of a "virgin" (sidenote: next time I accidently fill a woman with my baby batter and she claims I'm the father, I'm going with the same defense). One could make the case that the Holiday season is about family and community; that it's about giving to one another in a spirit of joy and thanksgiving.
Bullshit. It's about a God damn baby. How many other Holidays are about babies? Just this fucking one. Babies are terrible, why in the hell are we celebrating one? They contribute nothing, shit on everything, can't even properly operate a firearm (believe me, I've tried, they're all thumbs), and it takes 18 years to get rid of them if you don't manage to get them "accidentally" killed before then, probably by trying to teach them how to operate a firearm.
Nevertheless, I do celebrate the holiday. I have my own traditions, sure, but come December 25th, I'm up at the crack of dawn with the rest of you, polishing my Winchester in preparation for the bull sacrifice at Zeus' altar. After, we have spiced wine, and I regale all present with tales of my many sexual conquests.
But enough about my holiday traditions. My chest hair is groomed and permed. My body has been lathered with the finest Arabian oils. Let's get down to why I've gathered you all here: lists. The kids go crazy for lists, I'm told. So does that fat-shit bastard, Santa, who thinks I don't know that he's watching me while I sleep.
I know, you disgusting, slovenly lecher, and this year I've set up enough landmines to finally destroy you. I'm going to hang your saggy, perforated pelt above my bed, fat man, as a warning to any who dare transgress upon my privacy. I will be avenged. This year is the year, mark it.
Anyway, I know you're all horny for a list, so I thought I'd throw y'all a bone (mine, it's my bone) and roll one out.
And as this remains a website devoted to video games, and as this is also the Christmas season, what better list to drizzle into your collective eye holes than Charlton Heston's Favorite Video Games To Play During The Christmas Season ©.
Commence the God damn list.
1. Video games are for nerds
End of God damn list.
Right off the bat, let's settle this: I do not play video games. Partaking in such a pastime would do nothing but get in the way of my true, twin passions: firearms, and sexual intercourse.
Look at this broad; she is begging me for some of my sex, and even though she's barely a 6, I will give it to her, in the spirit of the Holidays
Now, on to the true reason I've gathered you all here: It's the season of giving, and if you aren't getting any givin', I'm about to give you some of mine, in the form of photographs chronicling my life and career. I share these in the hopes that they will bring us closer together, in order that we may greet Christmas day as kin. Doubly so if you're female; I'd like to be much closer in that case.
Prepare to receive the Gift of Heston.
Jingle balls deep.
The place: my home gym, in the afterglow of a 5-hour yogic sex romp. The Photographer: a Malaysian woman whose name I could not pronounce, but who was an absolute megaton of a lay. The book: Sun Tzu's The Art of War, read in preparation for the 7-hour yogic sex romp that soon followed this photograph: “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”
I've sown my oats with wild abandon since the day I was physically able to do so, and if I'm being honest with myself, there's a distinct possibility that any one of the women who took these pictures could be one of your mothers. If you ever find yourself looking in the mirror and saying to yourself, "Damn, I am the pinnacle of sexuality and manliness," yeah, that's all from me. Your mother could suck a bowling ball through a crazy straw though, so that's all from her.
I don't remember this, or who took it. God damn the '60s were wild.
My mother knitted me that sweater, not long before her passing. What? They're not all about sex, you reprobates. Although yes, I was nailing the photographer, but still, not at that moment.
Pictured: a lifetime of accomplishment, pensively and handsomely ruminated on. Not pictured: the Hawaiian broad who took the photo, who had thighs that would have made the gods weep. I would have married her if not for the fact that I was busy and didn't feel like it. Also I was already married, and I was pretty sure then that you weren't allowed to have more than five wives at a time. I mean one. One wife is what I meant.
I may like my women like I like my food—Mexican, and with cheese—but firearms will always be my first love. I named this rifle "Freedom," in honor of this great nation. Also to celebrate my being acquitted of those murder charges on a technicality. Spoiler alert, as you kids say: I totally did it.
Ah yes, candid red carpet shots. The only thing I know about the photographer is that he was Jewish, and he took a really long time to strangle.
You may not believe it, but I was quite the activist in my youth. Equal rights, and all that. Obviously the sign is horse shit, because, y'know, I exist, but I believed in the cause. I think. I don't really remember, actually, I was paid to be there.
There's nothing quite like a good ol' fashioned PB&J, wholesome and pure. Peanut butter also often found its way into my lovemaking, either by accident or by choice, so my endorsement of Skippy brand peanut butter was a natural fit. Plus, it got me a Camaro, which in turn, led to more lovemaking, which led to more peanut butter. The circle of life.
I swear to Christ, I was the only one in the whole auditorium who could see that God damn bird, it was maddening.
Fine, that is not me. He is Gregory Peck, and he is the only man that I have ever loved. I miss you, Gregory. I miss the way you curled my toes.
I'm not usually one for facial hair, but I have to say, my face got wetter than Niagara Falls when I had that mustache. Just ask your mother because, again, there is every chance in the world that she took it for a ride.
Some fools apparently believe I'm dead, and that I also simultaneously somehow have a potassium deficiency.
I have never known a joy quite like I had when that bird finally flew out of an open window.
There was a scene after this one that was removed from the final cut of the film in which I unleash a tirade of unkind ethnic slurs for Russian people at my co-star, Yul Brynner, for 5 straight minutes. I fought to keep it in, but I was ultimately overruled on the grounds that it didn't fit the tone or spirit of the film.
This was taken during a soiree at Stanley R. Greenberg's summer home, not long after we wrapped Soylent Green. This picture was about as civilized as the night got, as after it was taken, the night descended into Russian roulette wagers, opium abuse, Hasidic party clowns, nude Hasidic party clowns, nonconsensual orgies, and a combination pool party/human sacrifice/costume contest. Stanley always did know how to throw a hell of a shindig.
Interesting trivia: during the filming of Planet of the Apes, Kim Hunter, who played Zira, stayed in her ape make-up even when we weren't filming, in order to stay in character. This made having sex with her a terrifying experience.
It's been a long road. One full of triumph and heartache, love and loss, peanut butter and jelly. It hasn't been perfect, but it has been a hell of a ride.
And there you have it. I'd give you all more—I have so much to give, after all—but I've learned over the years that the human mind and body can only withstand so much of me before they are consumed with a lust that will never fade, and one which will ultimately destroy those stricken. Looking back on this year, it has been a joy to be among you all, and to have shared this time with you. So let me just say, from the bottom of my Heston heart, Happy Holidays, Destructoid. Here's to another tumescent year.