Jazz Catfish Presents: The Interrogation

     The first published video of me on the internet has me sporting a shaved head, a full-black trench coat, and a swastika armband. Hire me, corporate America! I also have tattoos and a foul mouth!
     The first time I met up with Rick Del Vecchio in person, he handed me a rolled-up script for the below-posted video, titled simply, "The Interrogation." He told me I had only one line in the skit, but it was the punchline, and he wasn't wrong; since the premier of the clip, every shindig I went to at which Rick's friends were present, upon Rick introducing me, everyone would look at me for a second, then recite the line with vigor and elation. I won't ruin it, here it is:

 

     The captured American pilot is our friend Jake, a Soldier who, at the time, worked for the Army Channel in a subterranean level of the Pentagon (I've been in a sub-basement of the Pentagon. The kind of shit you get to do as a member of the military media machine, and really just for the fuck of it, I swear) and in whose apartment we shot the short. It was a blast to make; you can see how beat up the banana got after all the slap-takes we did with it when Jake goes to pick it up with his feet. 

     The main Nazi is Tim, Rick's brother, who was at the time a Soldier separated from the Army. I met Tim that day, and by the wrap, he was a buddy, Jake too. More to come. 

Tales from the Navy: Tales from the Gettysburg

My 2009 deployment on USS Boxer was a departure from the typical WESTPAC, and ultimately, I'm grateful for it. Sure, we missed out on some ports, and yeah, we spent long enough at sea in one stretch for me to completely lose touch with reality for a while, and true, we were full past capacity on several occasions with our complement of 2,000 Marines, plus 90 or so embarked SEALs, a good amount of Counter-Piracy Task Force 151 personnel, and at one point a contingent of German SWAT specialists, but I got to experience a lot of things most Sailors don't.

Or the same things, just more of it. I don't know.

One of these days I'll write the story of deployment 2009, and it will probably need to be cut up into about 10 or 12 different posts, but for now, I'm going to post a small, five-entry journal I kept during my seven-day stay aboard the USS Gettysburg (CG 64,) a Ticonderoga-class Navy cruiser that Boxer worked alongside during counter-piracy operations. Boxer served as Combined Task Force 151's (CTF 151) flagship and detention facility, while smaller, faster, and more agile ships like Gettysburg did the chasing and deployed the boarding teams in inflatable boats.

USS GETTYSBURG (CG 64)

     Since the photo cutline option won't let me make more than one line, I'll leave the photography credit here:
     U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 3rd class Steven A. Ortiz.

Mass Communication Specialists (MCs; my rating, a merger of journalists, photographers, lithographers and draftsmen) are a rare billet in the smaller classes of ships. Boxer, being a 3,000+ person vessel had a division of seven or eight MCs while in port, and was augmented by a Naval Public Affairs Support Element (NPASE; had enough acronyms yet?) detachment of six or so more when deployed. The USS Green Bay (LPD 20) had a combined-personnel (Sailors and Marines) of 700, and had a single MC1 assigned. Gettysburg had a capacity of around 400, and had no MCs.

Instead, the duties of the MC were distributed amongst other rates; the Interior Communications Electricians (ICs) ran the movies on the ship's CCTV system, the Intelligence Specialist (IS) chief (for there was only the ISC aboard to rep ISs, with a single Operations Specialist [OS] to assist her) took photos for the cruisebook and pulled SNOOPY team duty. Yes, SNOOPY was a fucking backronym for something, and I don't remember what, and I don't care what, because for fuck's sweet sake people, we're a military organization, not a goddam floating kindergarten.

The point I am just inching towards is that the brass had ample coverage of the detention/headquarters end of things, they wanted more coverage of the shit-going-dowwwwn end to round out the collection. Chief asked the division at evening quarters one night if anyone would be interested in "cross-decking" to the Gettysburg for two weeks to cover Visit, Board, Search and Seizure team operations, and my hand shot up. I was surprised to see no one else's at first, but going through the list mentally, I could see where each of them would have issues with being a stranger in a strange land. Tough the idea scared me somewhat too, I was the only one who really didn't have anything keeping me on Boxer; quite the contrary, I would have done all manner of unspeakable things for just ten minutes away from the fucker at that point.

This introduction is going long, and unfortunately, the journal goes pretty short. When I bust out WESTPAC 2k9: THE SERIAL NOVELLA, I'll cover it in better depth, but for now, here's a bit of a peek into the mindset of 23-year-old MC2 Jeff Hopkins at a strange point in his life.

Tales from the Gettysburg

Day 1.

I waited in flight deck triage for what seemed like forever, waiting for the bird from the Gettysburg to arrive on Boxer. Sitting there in my utilities on a seabag packed so full it felt like brick, I began to realize the gravity of my situation: I was flying to a small ship leaden with firearms, where I would get on an even smaller boat, likely without a gun, and take pictures as Sailors attempted to arrest suspected pirates, who may possibly be as heavily armed as they are.

A grin surfaced on my salty fucking face.

The helicopter was an SH-60B Seaknight. It was equipped with Forward Looking Infrared video cameras. The Aircrewman made sure I knew that. He demonstrated it the whole flight. It was fun.

The ocean stretches on for days. Literally for days. If you fall overboard, unless you can learn to sprout gills, you’re dead fucking meat. Give up the ghost and just inhale water. Who knows, maybe that will spur the gill-adaptation process.

Day 2.

I managed to pull my ass out of the rack a little after 0600 this morning. It’s as cold as a whore’s heart in there each morning; I’m going to need to procure an extra blanket. The shower is the atmosphere’s immediate opposite: hot as Hades is purported to be. It felt good, when it wasn’t scalding my no-no’s.

On the plus side, I was up early enough to hit up breakfast!

On the negative side, breakfast sucked. I didn’t think breakfast could get worse than Boxer’s, but somehow they managed. The waffles were these tiny, dry bricks, and the spam was cold. But it was better than nothing of course; it was just good to have food in my stomach.

I guess I was supposed to be at quarters. Who knew, right? Ha-ha. Well, the day before, Seaman Ellis, one of the guys I work with in the office told me I didn’t have to be there for morning muster, so I said fuck it and checked my email in the office. Wrong answer; apparently I need to muster with these guys every morning at 0715. Roger that.

I’m far enough away from home as it is, dammit. I was just getting comfortable with being on the Boxer, and then I volunteered to step out of THAT comfort zone and into an entirely new place, where I don’t even belong. I’m here all by myself for six weeks. I don’t know, I guess I just feel really lonely at the moment.

Enough about that. Gettysburg is much smaller then Boxer, so if I’m going anywhere, it’s up and down a ladder well. Almost nothing I need to be at is on the same level as anything else.

I photographed Visit, Board, Search and Seizure team training drill today. There are a couple of Coasties here from the Law Enforcement Detachment assigned to Boxer, so I know a few of them already. My ass has sweated through my underwear, and now it is itching me something fierce, but I can’t do anything about it because there are people around and oh my God it’s driving me crazy ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod-

The 1MC here is so much quieter.

I don’t have a home anymore. I need to settle down and make one. I need to find a home. I need to find a homie. I need to find a fold and fuck it.

FUCK!

The constant hum of ships, I fear, will drive me mad.

Dinner was decent. I ate alone in a room full of people. How melodramatic. And then I performed the lock. Oh yeah. I read a whole volume of the Maxx and watched Zack and Miri Make a Porno. Ah, it made me want to fall in looooooooove. That’s the last thing I need right now, that’s for damn sure.

Day 3.

Well, I went to quarters this morning. It’s kind of weird seeing the way other divisions run on other ships. It makes me realize just how laid back my division really is. We sit down in the office for quarters in the morning instead of sweating outside, we speak informally, and we just have our chief and MC1 there as leadership, as opposed to Gettysburg’s three chiefs and a divisional officer. However, I am working for Gettysburg’s Intelligence department, whereas on Boxer I’m part of Executive, which comprises several personnel-support divisions, rather than technical, operations-dependant groups. Morning quarters here is like departmental quarters on Boxer.

I got sucked into sweepers too. Looks like I’m an all-purpose Sailor for the next six weeks. Oh well, I don’t mind physical labor, it makes me feel valuable. Heh heh. “Minus Tree Charlie.”

Dis bro’s got da goggles, haha. Ratty lady. “She’s da coolest chick I know.”

Roiiiiiiiiiight.

I don’t know, this whole cross-decking thing kind makes me feel like a tool, or a unit of a machine, with interchangeable parts. A mechanical hand picks me out of my slot, moves me over to a different machine, and drops me into another identical slot, where I perform the same function. I used to think that sort of thing was cool, but now it makes me want to barf in terror. I can’t explain it. It doesn’t make me feel very manly or secure.

I went out in the Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat. It was a blast; we went and harassed people in boats. They waved to us, we pointed guns at them. Hooray for diplomacy! I got really wet, with salt water. My boots are still damp. I need to get another pair. All the pictures I took, I really need to get a new external hard drive and a copy of Photoshop for my laptop. I can’t edit the pictures with the program Windows Vista gives you, other than to crop, which is horseshit. All I really need to do is fix the levels, but I can’t even do that.

I went to bed at 1800 or so. I was bushed. But now I’m bushy tailed. Right?

Day 4.

I have come to understand that the Leading Petty Officer for this division is a douche bag. Col. DEWregard. I think I may have just thought up a Mountain Dew commercial, right here, right now, in real-time ladies and gentlemen, please, hold the buzzword-chat to a minimum. Also, the saltwater washed all the polish off my boots. Did I bring any? Probably not. Must check the ship’s store, when it opens.

We’ve hit the 1/3 point of deployment. I already hate WESTPAC. I don’t want to do another. I don’t know how these lifers get off on it so much. They must either hate their families, their free time, or they just don’t have any other purpose in life. Maybe they’re afraid to get out in the civilian world and feel some risk, but me, I’m ready to live on the wild side.

I don’t know what it is, but my eyes have been burning since I got here. Like bad. Like whoah. Like oww.

I just want to be driving up the 395 towards Ridgecrest right now. Right at the big drop before Atolia, knowing I’m almost home, but not quite there, some music on, the wind blowing, people waiting for me to get in so we can drink and catch up. I’m fucking lost out here.

Siller emailed me and said I may be going home today. Already. I’ve only been here four days. According to him, Chief said they’re sending the combat camera guy they have onboard over here, and that I’d be coming back. I overheard the ISC in here talking about receiving two personnel from Boxer, so who knows.

I wish he hadn’t said anything, because now I’ve got this stupid hope that I’m going back to Boxer. I’m not really adjusted here yet, so having them take me back rather than asking them to take me back is a lot better. It doesn’t feel so much like quitting. And it’s just a rumor at this point, so I really don’t want to hear it until there’s something concrete. I’m starving. I finished the feature I wrote on the Gettysburg’s only Mater-at-Arms, but I have to get the operational story taken care of. I was supposed to go speak with the Navigator last night, but instead I slept for twelve hours. I needed the sleep, but I bet he thinks I’m a douche bag now. No big deal. I’ll see if I can’t get to him tonight. I also have to talk to the LEDET about the Coastie side of the ops.

I need fooooooooooooood. I was going to get breakfast this morning, but the douche bag divisional LPO told us to be at quarters at 0705 this morning, so I got out of the chow line and went upstairs when I remembered, and then the dumb fucker didn’t show. So for now, I’m running on a can of Mountain Dew and a bag of plain M&M’s.

When the phone rings, I hope it’s someone calling ISC to tell her to get me to pack my bags.  Lame.

OSSN Ellis reminds me of the gay kid from “School of Rock.” It’s adorable.

Some of these ladies have “Queen for a year” syndrome. And the boys have goggles an inch thick, too. One of them calls everybody “honey” or “sweety,” I can’t quite recall, and they just get off on it. I think she’s the one with the flack vest that said “Love, Peace, and HURRICANE JANE” on the back of it. She is mousey. Sorta cute, in an “I haven’t seen land women in a month” kind of way.

Day 5.

I didn’t make it onto the bird last night. Not too big a deal, there’s this combat camera MC3 who came onboard and he seems pretty cool. At least I’ve got somebody to be strange with.  I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or not.

Nix that. I AM disappointed, I’m just not sure if I SHOULD be or not. I guess it doesn’t really matter, we’re still hitting a port at the same time, no beer day, but I can go without. I’m just used to the creature comforts of Boxer, as strange as that sounds. I don’t have my ATM card, that’s my biggest worry. I’m not sure how I’m going to get money to go out on liberty. They don’t have money changers come aboard for this next port, you just use your atm card at a machine and it gives you the local currency. Shit balls. All I’ve got is my Navy cash card here and my check book. I don’t think I’ll be able to find a place to cash a check. I’m hoping disbursing will be able to give me cash and I can take it to a currency exchange somewhere.

When I was a lad, my parents told me, “Son, we don’t care who yeh are… wieners don’t belong in buttholes.”

Words to live by.

Words to totally disregard.

Besides, they weren’t Scottish. I don’t know who they thought they were fooling.

That was my last beer you dick! Maybe I should have joined the merchant marines instead. I’m not entirely sure they’re allowed to bring alcohol onboard though. That would be pretty sweet. Now and again I do dream of having a beer.

 

     So that's where it cuts off. An MC3 from Combat Camera had arrived, and I started hanging out with him and not writing by myself anymore. I think I spent a few more days there, dicking around with my new buddy. As I said before, more to come, whether you're into it or not. Sorry.

Short story: The Waiting Room

I'm pretty sure I wrote this one in four hours on a Junior Officer of the Deck watch while I was on USS Boxer. It would make sense, considering the subject matter; a man sitting around waiting for nothing pretty much sums up any JOOD watch anywhere. I think I started to work on a "Further Adventures of Waiting Room Man" story at one point, but decided it was best to leave him to his magazine. I'm also pretty sure this story is about 75-78% expletives, so, fair warning.

The Waiting Room

It’s a waiting room.

Hell, I mean. Hell is a waiting room. One of those generic rooms with months-old Good Housekeeping and Highlights for Kids and chairs that are nice at first, but more and more uncomfortable with each passing hour.

It could be a doctor’s office waiting room. The off person coughs and sniffles every now and again, but it could also be a car dealership, or a dentist’s office, or a counselor’s office, or all of them at the same time, but it doesn’t really matter. The fact is, it’s a waiting room, and you wait here forever, reading outdated articles or watching reruns of daytime television or twiddling your thumbs and beating off, but all you’re really doing is waiting.

And waiting.

And fucking waiting.

Do you know how fucking maddening it is to sit and wait for nothing to happen forever? For a month? A day? Five minutes? Pick one, anyone of them will do, because when you’re waiting on nothing, time loses all meaning, all relevance, if you’ll pardon the fucking pun.

I couldn’t begin to tell you how long I’ve been here, because I don’t know. You just got here, and already you’ve been here an age, probably a decade. Probably several.

Did you even know you were dead? No? Me neither. I can barely remember being alive anymore, and what I can remember, the clothes, the cars, food, sex, anything, well… Quite frankly, I’m worried I gleaned them all from the shit they keep running on the TV in the corner.

Other than that, I just remember walking through the door, and then the receptionist’s glass window opened, and she said to take a seat, that someone would be with me shortly. I didn’t know what I was waiting on, I just knew this was where I was, where I was supposed to be for that matter, and that sooner or later my number would be up for whatever. But look around; do you see a fucking door? Where did we come in?

I didn’t even notice their absence at first. What made me realize something was wrong was that I’d been here this whole time, and I wasn’t even hungry. Or thirsty. I wasn’t tired, I didn’t need to piss or shit, all I had was this mindless feeling of anxiety, that something was going to happen at some point, and I had to sit here and wait for it.

And wait.

I thought all of this was a dream for a very long time. No one ever says anything; they just sit there looking bored or nervous. Human beings don’t sit still that long, they just don’t have the patience. I tried talking to them, but they don’t want to. I thought they honestly didn’t know anything at first, that they were just as puzzled as I was, but I began to see it in their faces, the way they read and reread the same articles, how they avoided watching the TV, or looking at the reception window. They didn’t want to talk about it because they were scared of being dead.

So I thought they weren’t real, at first. The receptionist, I fucking know she ain’t real. She’s as much a part of the waiting room as that coffee pot over there that never fills up. It just keeps on brewing coffee that never touches the bottom of the pot, and she keeps sitting there motionless behind that frosted glass. You can see her behind it, just sitting there. I’d believe she disappears when the glass closes, if not for that silhouette. 

That’s it for the guardian of the afterlife, huh? What a laugh. No Saint Peter calling roll from the Book of Life, no angels with flaming swords, no fiery demons, just a vaguely robotic receptionist that tells you to “please take a seat and someone will be with you shortly” before the little window shuts in your face. Always the same damn answer, regardless of the question.

I called this place hell, but I meant it as an adjective, not a noun. I don’t believe this place is the biblical brimstone soul-locker, where unrepentant sinners burn in a lake of fire. For one thing, where’s the fucking fire? For another, where are the unholy torturing demons? And the population hardly fits the bill; look over there, that mother tending to her kids, or the old man reading the tract? What the fuck, Tina? And although I can’t be certain, I don’t feel like I could have been that awful of a person myself.

And isn’t that really the fuck of it? I can’t remember. How am I supposed to repent and atone for some sin I don’ t know about? It doesn’t make any sense, and that’s why I don’t think this place is supposed to be a punishment, though it’s a very fucking effective one all the same. I think maybe, what’s happening now is the result of the briefest afterthought any sentient creator could have had. That whatever fucked up science project good ol’ God had going, he didn’t think of what to do with the by-product. We’re like so much hazardous waste. We couldn’t be gotten rid of, just rounded up and stored in a safe place until he’s done playing ant-farm or whatever the fuck.

I know, I know, yes I have tried to escape. You can’t. You never know where the door is. I don’t even remember which side of the room I entered from. I could have descended from the ceiling or risen from the floor for fuck all, and I’ve never actually witnessed anyone come in. I’ll look up from one of these awful magazines and there will be another slightly confused-looking person sitting nearby.

When escape didn’t work, I tried to kill myself.  Let me tell you, nothing has ever been more difficult. First off, there’s nothing in this room sharp enough to slit my wrists, unless I wanted try paper cutting them. I tried shattering the coffee pot so I could use some glass shards for the job, but I couldn’t break it, no matter how hard I tried. Same thing with the receptionists’ window pane. I tried hitting the fucker with a chair, and all that happened was the bitch popped her head out to tell me to take a seat, and that someone would be with me shortly.

I tried strangling myself with my belt. No dice. I never strangled, no matter how long I cut my windpipe off. My lungs didn’t even start to burn. I’m pretty sure I could get into the Guinness Book of Records for holding my breath for eternity. I tried bashing my head against the walls and floor. My last attempt was a swan dive from the top of my chair, landing on my neck.

I’m still here.

I don’t think we have much longer to wait though. A couple of decades back I picked up the remote and changed the channel on the TV. CNN. I had a hard time making sense of it. Things had changed quite a bit since I’d died, and none of it for the good. Civil war, failed colonization of the moon (which would account for that poor group of folks in the space-suits over there,) religious groups blowing each other up, and a fat bunch of good it’s doing them, and all manner of crazy shit.

But the channel shortly changed back, and I haven’t seen the remote since.

You want to know the truth? It excited me. I’m fucking glad humanity is going to shit. It means that they’re exhausting their drastic measures, and it’s only a matter of time before somebody dusts off the controls to their nuclear arsenal and ends this God-awful (again, pardon the pun) experiment once and for all.

Or maybe it won’t be the end. Maybe we overestimated our importance in the whole thing, and the end of humanity isn’t the end of existence. At the very least, there will be a lot of new, interesting faces around here.

Can you hand me that National Geographic? I’ve had my eye on it, but that old lady has had it for an eternity.

What's two parts robo, one part cop?

       Somebody be as excited as I am for the upcoming Robocop remake, I dare you.

I fucking dare you.

Children of the late 80s have recently been treated (or subjected, depending on personal preference) to a spate of reboots and re-imaginings of the movies from our childhood. Transformers, Batman, and most recently, Judge Dredd, Total Recall, and even Red Dawn have all appeared in theaters with modifications and updates for the modern outlook of their aged fans (my god you guys are SO OLD.) With each preview, some part of me - I’d say inner child, but that implies I matured at some point - has given a small cheer, but the Robocop teaser should have come with a warning to consult a doctor in case of a prolonged erection.

What was it about a robotic police officer that excited me so much in my younger days? I suppose it was the idea that some day in the future, man could be merged with machine, creating something invincible, that someday, no matter what stupid thing I did to harm myself, they could rebuild me. They’d have the technology. Of course, as a child, I couldn’t comprehend the horrific struggle Alex Murphy, the Robocop project’s initial candidate went through in regaining his memories. I had no concept of how jarring it would be to go from emotionless machine to man-trapped-in-robot-body.

I just thought being able to shoot a bad guy while looking in the opposite direction was fucking neat.

"GOTCHA BITCH!"

I still do, but of course, now I really appreciate director Paul Verhoeven’s Robocop for it’s depth, satire, and that main villain Clarence Boddicker is played by Kurtwood Smith (Red Forman from That 70s Show.)

Not much has been released yet regarding the reboot save for some stills and concept videos, but from what I’ve seen so far, the film is going to have quite an updated look from its 20-plus-year-old predecessor. Let’s take a look at some of these differences.

The Machine:

The year 1985 was a long fucking time ago, and nothing indicates its vintage more than the original Robocop’s aesthetic.

At the time, automation of industrial processes by robots was becoming less of a fantastic idea and more of a solid reality. Repetitive tasks were being delegated to bulky machinery capable of precisely and tirelessly performing a set task, minimizing error while optimizing output. The idea that machines would slowly replace humans in jobs wasn’t new, but had taken on a dark popularity, as evidenced by the switch in outlook from the Jetsons-esque utopias depicted in earlier decades to the dirty, crowded, mechanized futures of films like Blade Runner and Total Recall.

Oddly enough, the creators of these films envisioned a future in which the technology existed to connect circuitry to nervous tissue, but not the capability of making the hardware of manageable size. Instead, my assumption is Edward Neumeier, the artist responsible for Robocop’s design, apparently studied the unwieldy robotics of the assembly line and cobbled a man from it. OG Robocop stood between six and seven feet tall, and was a machine approximation of the human body, finished in polished steel. His legs were decently in keeping with human anatomy (down to pneumatic calcaneal tendons,) but his torso was wide and deep, giving his head a sort of “I’ll just put this here” appearance, and his arms articulated slightly above where a human’s should.

The shiny finish of his armor, in conjunction with the oblong, skinny slot of transparent glass in his helmet give the impression of a sturdy, retro toaster, albeit a toaster that could kick your ass.

"YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO A BALANCED BREAKFAST."

New Robocop appears to be the anthropomorphization of an android smartphone (product placement, perhaps?) His body has a much sleeker, more slender frame, and is finished in a matte black, a visual next-door neighbor to the Batman costume of Christopher Nolan’s trilogy. Robocop’s new, non-reflective body would help give him the element of surprise over OGR’s blatant ‘HEY EVERYBODY, I’MA FUGGIN ROWWWBAAAAHT’ design (which always seemed counter-intuitive, but then, when you’re known for making distinct servo noises just audible over ground-shaking footsteps and shooting criminals in the dick, subtlety is clearly the least of your concerns.)

"BOOM! HEADSHOT!"

Human Features:

In Robocop (1985,) Detroit police officer Alex Murphy is brutally torn apart by repeated pistol and shotgun blasts, leaving almost nothing but a shot-up torso and head. We see snippets of Murphy’s transformation into Robocop from Murphy’s perspective as he is powered up for brief moments for diagnostic tests. During one of these periods of consciousness, we see a technician inform Robocop Project director Dick Jones that the team managed to save Murphy’s left arm. Jones tells the technician to ditch it, as they’ve decided on total body prosthesis.

They get what they ask for; the only visible vestige of Murphy’s body is his face, the majority of which is covered by his helmet. When the helmet is removed, Robocop’s face is creepier than his square pecs and missing dick combined. Murphy’s face was stretched over a metal skull, and when I say stretched, I mean Team Robocop put Joan Rivers’ plastic surgeon to shame. Robocop’s forehead is more uncomfortably long than the silence after an unexpectedly audible fart in a crowded elevator. Thankfully for most of the movie we’re treated to no more of his face than his mouth.

Though I’ve yet to see under new and improved Robocop’s helmet, I imagine they’ve dialed back the fo-hed some. His new helmet is an uninterrupted sheet of tinted, curved glass, but still shows no more of his face than mouth and jaw.

New Robocop boasts another unique feature: a single human hand, specifically his right. It’s an odd island of flesh in a sea of black armor, and the only excuse I can come up with for it is that if you’re going to leave the guy a nose, you’d be a bastard not to leave him something to pick it with. OGR’s hands were large, bludgeon-y things with Lincoln Log fingers, unfit for much more than holding his gun and punching through anything and everything. I’d think he’d be hesitant to scratch his cheek for fear of tearing his whole fucking face off, however, perhaps Robocop (2014) director Jose Padilha plans to focus on Murphy’s romantic barriers, and left the single hand so Murphy could, uh… caress a woman’s face.

OGR had his own means of pleasing the ladies.

"PREPARE TO INTERFACE... UH, 'BABY'."

The hand does a lot in humanizing the new Robocop’s look; when taken in with the sleek, body-shaped chassis, the whole thing appears to be a suit a man is wearing, rather than the body itself. The hand appears to extrude from a sleeve rather than attach to a wrist. The hand leaves a lot of questions: Is it actual bone and hand, or is it just his hand skin stretched over a robot hand? Does it have the same weaknesses as a human hand? What the hell is he going to need a human hand for now that his dick’s MIA? 

"I KNOW, HAND. I MISS HIM TOO."

     Ultimately there's still little information out about the new film, but it has a tentative release date of 2014. I don't do a lot of movies in the theater, but bet your ass I'm doing this one.