Reacher with the Dutch Giant Olivier Richters
“West Point graduate. Silver Star. Defense Superior Service Medal. Legion of Merit, Soldier’s Medal, Army Commendation Medal, Bronze Star, a second Silver Star, and a Purple Heart.”
Now, I must confess I don’t know much about American military honors, but I did watch enough American-made movies and TV shows to know that when someone is listing that long a list of achievements, you KNOW you are dealing with someone special. A HERO. And not one of those Spandex-wearing aliens, no, a genuine, American, real-life working class super-star of a man.
Like Tom Cruise, only real.
I wish I was big. And capable. Like Alan Ritchson’s Jack Reacher is. I’ve only seen forty-five minutes of the first episode, and here I am already, telling you Ruthless aficionados whether it’s any good.
It’s a weird old world, isn’t it? You know, where algorithms have quietly taken over everything, guiding our every purchase, newsfeed, even our very thoughts, all so that companies like GoogleFaceAmazoMicrOverlord can take over… well, just about every fucking thing.
Djeezus, is this review long enough already? [Editor’s Note: “Yes”] It’s about Reacher, the TV show, in case you were wondering. On Amazon Prime Video. Not about that lame ass movie with the aforementioned Tom. I mean, Alan Ritchson would eat Tom Cruise’s tight little ass for breakfast, both literally AND figuratively, as you Americans would probably put it.
This TV show is way cooler than that dumb movie. Especially if you, like me, are very much under the influence of some serious amounts of Dutch weed and Dutch Heineken. And insane, most likely.
It isn’t? Fine, I’ll write some more, then. Trump is an insane clown, that’s threatening to throw the whole world into the next Stone Age, and YOU, more than half of Americans, voted for him. Fuck you all.
So now, I would like to issue a serious warning about how AI and algorithms are enslaving us all quietly, but that would be utterly useless, because not only don’t you care about it, you WANT it. Because we are, after all, not much more than dressed monkeys. We follow the leader. Like lemmings, right of the cliff. Monkey-Lemmings. Imagine thàt.
I’m smoking three different strains of high-end weed simultaneously, dear people. Combined with six half liters of crystal clear, ice-cold Heineken. Yes, sir. Six half liters, that’s like 74 of your ounces! [Editor’s Note: Pussy!] Or some other weird, arbitrary measurement of something that couldn’t possibly be measured by any standard or form. You see, we, genuine movie (and TV show) critics, gathered here at Ruthless Reviews, we all exist just to make your transition through this troubled world a little bit easier, weary traveler. You are, by the very definition of the word, welcome.
Now, you can, with a certain level of confidence, watch this TV show and think, at the end of it all: ‘Well, this was a pretty good TV show. Now I’m dying in nuclear fire, but hey, what the hell, it was worth it. You only live twice, you know.’
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