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  • Summer Blockbusters Made for Women Inspired by Blockbusters Made for Men

     

    Every summer, Hollywood rolls out more movies based on toys my brother played with when we were little: Transformers, GI Joe, Star Wars. Others are based on the comics he read: Iron Man, X-Men, The Hulk, etc. These films are taken seriously by adults. And they are huge. It got me thinking: 

    What if Hollywood made movies for women that weren't brainless rom-coms?

    But that question was too large to tackle.

    What if Hollywood made movies based on characters and toys women liked as children?

    And so, here are some ideas I present to Hollywood (with the understanding that if used I will be compensated richly), titles followed by their potential trailers, trailers of course being read in the voice of trailer voiceover guy.

    Outrageous: Holograms vs. Misfits

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  • Peecol: The Hulk, Wonder Woman and a Dirty Old Man

     

     

    We're not too down with the whole Peecol phenomenon. In fact, we didn't even know what these strange little guys were called until today. We do, however, think they're intended for kids (correct us if we're wrong). That's why we're so, so confused by the most recent Peecol figurine. 

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  • In the 70's "The Hulk" Could Get You "Almost Laid"

    Jeremy Eaton was 13 years old in 1977 when he sent a letter to the editor of "The Incredible Hulk." The comic book published his letter, with his mailing address (unheard of today!). Later, Jeremy received a letter from the sweetly-named Wendy Wilson—or a pedophile in disguise, but we'd like to think it really was Sweet Wendy, though that name is almost too cute and the handwriting a little too relaxed for a 14-year-old-girl. Either way, Jeremy saved the letter and recently posted it, and his response, on his blog.  

    Wendy lived in Kingston, Jamaica. Her letter arrived in early August, just a few weeks after I’d first discovered my name and address had become a part of the Marvel Universe. Her envelope, a delicate, soft, airmail blue, cut like a cyclone through my introverted, adolescent existence, spewing a flurry of feminine considerations. She told me of her eyes. Black eyes, she said, with a poetic force beyond her years. She told me of her hair. Black hair, she teased. She told me of her body. Slim build, with lovely shape, she smiled, seeming to literally breathe from the lightly-scented, decorative note paper, stationary that featured an illustration, in the lower left-hand corner, of two Keane-styled children, a boy and a girl, dressed respectively in overalls and a petticoat, tromping barefoot through a pasture of bright daisies. This idyllic drawing was accompanied by a script-written quote: “We’re not the only ones in love… we just think we are”, to which Wendy had coyly added Remember m, remember e, put them together and remember me.

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