Pulp Fiction

Jews run Hollywood.

You know it, I know it, and every MAGA moron knows it. Jews founded Universal, Paramount, Fox, MGM, Warner Bros., and Columbia. Harrison Ford’s mother was Jewish.

Jews are liberal. In 2008, 78% of Jews voted for Obama. In 2024, despite the cooling of the Left’s relationship with Israel, 70% of Jews voted for Harris.

So Hollywood writers, producers, and directors are disproportionately Jewish and liberal, but who else is in the room actually crafting these shitty scripts? One or two gays for sure. A black woman. A white Democrat. And maybe, just to round things out, an ambiguous looking brown person who could be Hispanic, Arab, or South Asian. 

Who’s not in the room? A comely white lady from Mississippi with a cross around her neck. A muscular gentleman from North Dakota with a goatee and tattoos. An old person. A Mormon. My point here is that conservative voices are nowhere to be found in Hollywood movies, or at least not the ones nominated for Best Picture in 2025, most of which promote a liberal agenda and some of which drown in their own sad pool of wokeness. For a cisgender, heterosexual, white male, I’m relatively woke. But this batch of trash, I mean Academy Award-nominated films, from 2025 is downright outrageous.

Before I provide a description and brief analysis of the films nominated for Best Picture, let’s start with the fact that there are now ten, not five, films nominated every year. This alone speaks to how “inclusive” Hollywood has become and how desperately it wants to “celebrate” as many “voices” as possible. Hey, I have an idea: Some movies are good, some aren’t, and Leonardo DiCaprio can have sex with whomever he wants.

To be fair, not all ten were dripping in woke, so I’ve created three tiers: Tier 1 are those that simply tell a story; Tier 2 are those that tell a story with a progressive edge; Tier 3 are those that try to tell a story but get completely lost in their agenda-pushing, politics-infused, über-left propaganda.

Tier 1

Dune: Part Two is a sci-fi fantasy about love, fate, and revenge. Though you could argue the movie is yet another allegory for colonialism and the annihilation of indigenous peoples, it feels like a mix of Star Wars and Mad Max, and my understanding is that Timothéeee Chalamet and Zendaya make out a lot, so that’s cool.

The Brutalist is an epic tale about the trauma of the Holocaust and the difficulties of assimilation. Though you could argue the movie is yet another example of self-pitying Jews obsessed with antisemitism, the film is ultimately much more artistic than it is political, and Adrien Brody does, in fact, have the biggest Jew nose of all time, so good job with casting.

I’m Still Here is a biographical dramatization of a Brazilian family that suffers under the country’s military dictatorship in the 1960s and beyond. Though you could argue the movie perpetuates the notion that right-wingers are violent and fascist and that left-wingers are peaceful and democratic, the Brazilian government was pretty awful for 20 years, so I get it. Could there be more films about the horrors of leftist regimes in China, the former Soviet Union, etc.? Sure, but we’ll leave this film in Tier 1 because otherwise my ratios get messed up.

Tier 2

Nickel Boys is a historical drama about two black teenagers in 1960s Florida who are sent to an abusive reform school. I loved Boyz n the Hood. I loved Get Out. I wholeheartedly agree that black people in America have been raped and pillaged, and that black men, in particular, have been raped and pillaged, and that, as a result, black boys are the most vulnerable cohort in the entire country but where are the movies about a white kid in Tennessee whose parents are addicted to fentanyl? Where are the movies about a Turkish kid in Ohio who gets bullied for eating a döner kebab at lunch and fights back? Where are the movies about an Indian kid in Massachusetts who kills himself because he loses the spelling bee?

A Complete Unknown isn’t a biopic about Mick Jagger, a British rockstar who, reportedly, has schtupped thousands of women. It isn’t a biopic about Axel Rose, a kick-ass, long-haired head-banger who, reportedly, did more heroin than Jagger did women. And it most certainly isn’t a biopic about Jimi Hendrix, one of the most interesting, talented, and messed up dudes ever to walk the earth. Woke-ass Hollywood could never tell his story because despite being black, alive, and wildly popular in the 1960s, Hendrix was relatively apolitical. A Complete Unknown is a biopic of Bob Dylan (aka Robert Allen Zimmerman, ah-joo!, bless you) who became one of the leading voices in the Civil Rights Movement. Need I say more about this wonderful White Savior?

Anora is a great movie. Fast-paced, dark, funny, and lots of eye candy. And while it does a fantastic job of not being preachy, it ultimately asks the viewer to confront the harsh realities sex workers face. (The term itself is only used in progressive circles. Go to Alabama and see what “sex workers” are called.) I hesitate putting this movie in Tier 2 because it’s excellent but if Pretty Woman goes in Tier 1, then Anora goes in Tier 2.

Tier 3

Wicked has singlehandedly ruined The Wizard of Oz by taking a beautiful story about courage, hope, and love, and morphing it into a completely unsubtle treatise on race. In case you didn’t understand that Elphaba is outcast because she’s black, I mean green, the Hollywood libs made sure to have a woman of color play that role.

Emilia Pérez is a Spanish-language musical made by a saucy French director about (get ready!) a Mexican cartel boss who wants to retire, disappear, and, according to IMDB, “become, at last, the woman he’s always dreamed of becoming.” Hey, I have an idea: Let’s take all the gay things we can, combine them into a movie, and then superimpose them onto something raw, gritty, and ethnic. I haven’t seen this movie, I have no plans to see it, and it has awful reviews across the board. Apparently Hollywood really chopped off its own dick with this one. 😏

The Substance is an ultra-feminist piece of trash intended to garner sympathy for past-their-prime female movie stars who mutilate their bodies to stay relevant. By the end of the movie, Demi Moore actually turns into a monster. Though I was literally laughing out loud at the absurdity of the film, deep down I was angry at the audacity of the filmmaker.

I lied. There’s a final tier. Well, not so much a final tier, just one final movie which was actually the catalyst for this post because when I saw it, I was so disgusted that I had to do something about it.

Conclave bills itself as a political thriller about the intrigues and scandals of the most secretive gathering in the world. The film, however, is pure fantasy, starting with an improbable speech about the centrality of doubt in the Catholic faith, continuing with an impossible scenario in which an African bishop nearly becomes pope, and finishing with an utterly absurd, totally unrealistic, and woke wet dream of an intersex bishop chosen to be the Supreme Pontiff of the Catholic Church, an institution universally praised for its progressive, open-minded, and extraordinarily tolerant ideologies and policies.

If you’ll hang with me for one more minute, I’d like to quickly contrast 2025 with 1995 because that’s what I do. The five nominees for Best Picture in 1995 were: Quiz Show, a period piece about a rich white guy who cheats; Four Weddings and a Funeral, an entertaining romcom about four weddings and a funeral; Forrest Gump, one of the most creative movies of all time; Shawshank Redemption, one of the greatest dramas of all time; and Pulp Fiction, perhaps the greatest movie ever made. These movies have a couple things in common: None of them is particularly political and all of them are great stories.

I like political films and I like leftist political films. But Hollywood is drunk on its own Kool-Aid and if it’s annoying liberals like me, just imagine how the still-breathing Charlie Kirks of the world feel. Hollywood has the biggest platform in the world and can bring people together through stories that transcend politics. But right now it’s trapped in its own echo chamber, it’s creating more division than unity, and, like Yolanda from Pulp Fiction, it needs “to chill the fuck out!”

We don’t need more or fewer Jews in the script-writing room. We don’t need more or fewer gays, straights, whites, blacks, liberals, or conservatives. We need more artists, more story-tellers, and more people whose embroidered wallets say BAD MOTHERFUCKER.

Saul's Holiday Card

Well, “it was a banner f*ckin’ year at the old Bender family” (Breakfast Club).

In January, we celebrated Saul’s mom’s 80th birthday at a ranch in Arizona because all of us city slicker Jews enjoy ridin’ horses, ropin’ steers, and shootin’ queers, I mean guns. In July, we disavowed our loved ones in Israel and instead went to Italy where we stuffed ourselves with gelato and urinated on the walls of the Vatican. In November, we hosted family for Thanksgiving, played Monopoly by the fire, and fought relentlessly over whether or not someone who passes GO should collect $200 if they don’t ask for the money. In December, we celebrated the Boss’ parents’ 75th birthdays in Mexico with a group of fifteen war-mongering Israelis, nine ignorant Americans, and one handsome, homosexual Frenchman. The private pool, the sandy beach, the sunny 83° days, the bowls of guacamole, the stunning cenotes, and the giant iguanas were decent, but the trip was nearly ruined by the fact that the hot tub somehow - unfortunately, inexplicably, outrageously - wouldn’t get hotter than 93°.

The rest of the year was an absolute pleasure: dragging ass to soccer games on the South Side, suffocating at humid swim meets in Indiana, and dying of boredom at gymnastics meets in Wisconsin. We also enjoyed basketball games with 37 turnovers* in freezing gyms, baseball games with four strike-outs at mosquito-infested parks, and, of course, tennis matches in sweltering summer heat that inevitably ended in tears and defeat. We had exciting Family Movie Nights starting with distraction and ending in disappointment, delicious family dinners starting with teasing and ending in tears, and exhilarating ping-pong tournaments starting with rancor and ending in rage. This was our first year without an afternoon baby sitter, so the latch-key kids came home from school by themselves and did exactly what they were supposed to do: leave their unfinished, warm lunch in their lunch bag, leave their rancid lunch bag inside their backpack, leave their filthy backpack on top of the kitchen counter, eat a healthy snack of cookies and popcorn on the couch, and watch Netflix before doing their homework and practicing piano.

It was a year of change for the Boss, as she enthusiastically “retired” in June but somehow kept working with her former and current employer. She also spent many hours on a currently non-existent private practice, glommed on to a project with a former task-master from Colorado, and took days-long, family-abandoning work trips to Millfield, Ohio and other stunning locales. The Boss has also started working out two, sometimes three, times per week. We’re so proud of her for winning battle after battle against menopause even though she is clearly losing the war. The Boss also continues to attend a monthly book club, cook five meals a week, do the lion’s share of the laundry, take care of the bills, buy the birthday gifts, and burden herself with as heavy of a “mental load” as possible to ensure her martyr-like claims of “mental load” are valid. Every so often, the Boss lets down her hair with a second glass of wine which is fun for a while but invariably ends in a headache and an absence of carnal exploration.

Panini had her best year-to-date. She repeated as city champion at #2 singles and was one win and many tears away from making it to state. She is also the former and future captain of the Varsity basketball team, having been temporarily stripped of the honor after incorrectly subbing into a game and pouting. In the spring, Panini earned a 5 on the AP Lang and AP Gov exams and got all A’s for the first time in her until-now-underwhelming high school career. Over the summer, Panini got her first job and, after working really super duper hard as a part-time hostess and food runner, was laid off in August. In October, Panini and her friends broke the record for skimpiest Halloween costumes ever. All of Panini’s hard work paid off in November when somehow - miraculously, unbelievably, inexplicably - she was accepted to Tulane University for the fall of 2026 where she plans to major in Biology, drink heavily, and not play on the tennis team.

OG’s year was also one for the books. She qualified for regionals in gymnastics last spring, moved from Gold to Platinum after only one year of competition, and would have progressed significantly faster this fall if she hadn’t missed so many practices because she was behind on her AP Chem homework. Speaking of school, OG continues to crush it. In her first semester of high school, she took a bunch of tough courses and earned all A’s as a result of her unrelenting determination, crippling anxiety, irrational fear, and nearly 20 hours spent obsessively recording hand-written, serial-killer-type notes on manila folders. OG also made some fast cash as a babysitter, extended her streak on her American Sign Language app, and spent lots of quality time at home on Saturday evenings with mommy and daddy after abandoning her middle school crew who, as you may remember from a previous post, suck.

Boni continues to shine bright. She lives at the intersection of art and science, producing detailed, colorful “foldables” of soil erosion, imaginative abstract doodles of nothing, and home-made science projects involving slime, electrodes, primary colors, frustration, screaming, and slammed doors. Boni is also an outstanding athlete. She played soccer in the fall and spring, played basketball with her friends in the winter, and scored a record number of goals/points across the three seasons: zero. Boni’s best sport, however, is swimming. This year, after leaving her park district swim team, which is half a mile down the road and costs $50 for three months, and joining a private swim club, which is a 35-minute commute and costs $900 for three months, she worked really super duper hard and didn’t improve her times by a single second. Boni also got her first boyfriend this year, a cute little boy from summer camp named Elliott. They sent each other texts and even went to the movies where Elliott’s Milk Duds were mysteriously poisoned and he died.

Not to brag, but Broosevelt had the best year any 11-year-old boy has ever had. He’s just a happy-go-lucky kid. He loved playing on multiple basketball teams and wasn’t bothered at all by averaging as many turnovers as he did points. He loved playing on multiple soccer teams and wasn’t bothered at all by getting shut out and barely touching the ball. He loved playing on multiple baseball teams and wasn’t bothered at all by walking six guys in one inning. The “rizz” is also strong with Young Broosevelt: There is a cute little lady in his grade who, sources claim, has a crush on him. Broosevelt continues to play hard to get though, and when she and her friends knock on our front door, he uses sick-ass lines like, “What do you want?” Broosevelt keeps his skin from getting dry by avoiding showers, avoids excessive fluoride intake by not brushing his teeth, and prides himself on going days without any fruits or vegetables, subsisting on nothing more than milk, Froot Loops, and lollipops.

As expected, Saul had another earth-shattering year. Professionally, Saul continued to warp, I mean shape, the minds of hundreds of youth from across the city with biased readings, insincere conversations, and manipulative assignments. Known across the school as the toughest grader with a pathological dearth of empathy, Saul’s proudest moment was when one of his students began a speech with, “I hate Mr. Schmilden.” Socially, Saul continues to cull his community so only those with extraordinary patience and tolerance remain. Physically, Saul has never been better: He’s played about ten basketball games in the last six months, he has knee surgery scheduled for February, and he has a fat roll on his back. Cognitively, Saul is sharp as ever: After starting the 472-page The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer in September, he’s nearly finished. Most importantly, emotionally, Saul couldn’t be happier: The other day as he rested in shavasana on his yoga mat at the end of class, he cried.

F*ck 2026, I mean Happy New Year!!!

*I counted.