This is part of a series of blog posts cranked out by my adoring proselytes — erm, I mean, faithful readers. I’m in Utah (er, presumably — maybe the plane crashed, or maybe I was forced into white sexual slavery somewhere in Dubai), so the task of entertaining you froth-mouthed moppets falls to others.

Today’s post is by Aaron Dembski-Bowden.

“I’m done reconfoobling the energy-mo-tron… or whatever.”

Bender, Futurama

As writers, we’re often told not to underestimate our readership. That seems very wise, no? It’s almost Zen, in a way that means we’re all equal, all similarly conscious and intelligent, and in a way that shows I’m using Zen in a sentence without really knowing what it means.

But, see, we’ve also all been online. Something about the internet magnifies people’s personalities and proclivities, making stupid opinions stupider, wrong perceptions wronger, and argumentative assholes both more argumentative, and more sphincterishly puckered.

Or does it? Maybe that’s what people really think? Maybe this is the babbletalk from their truebrain spilled directly into existence without their mouth or shyness blocking it with a sensefilter.

And I say this because, well, I like some really dumb shit.

I read a lot, and like to think I’m not being underestimated by authors. But the truth is, maybe I should be. I’m an average white male 25-40, and my only distinguishing characteristics are that I’m ruthlessly talented at what I do, and I’ve had much more sex with way hotter girls than anyone else currently drawing breath on Allah’s wonderful world. But still, when push comes to shove (and shove comes to a breadknife in the unguarded spleen) I think I’m fairly dumb.

I like some whacky shit, as long as you don’t take it too far. See, a lot of people do take things too far. I think it gets them off.

If you take the red pill, you will sit through two sequel films of various Australian black guys no one cares about, all shouting at bullshit each other in shitty rooms while metal sea monsters fly at them for reasons that may or may not be tied into the nature of reality.

Or you could take the blue pill, and abandon this trainwreck while it’s still cool and thought-provoking, and the effects aren’t yet overdone.

You see, my enthusiasm is a fragile, precious little pumpkin. It goes mouldy and splats with the merest hint of pressure. I don’t want the precious icons of the Sci-Fi and Fantasy universes explained to me in intense detail, because I won’t nod along and think “Yes, yes, how fascinating.” I’ll get bored. Worse, I’ll instinctively find flaws in the explanations, because I’m not an idiot. Is your life enriched by the fact that you now know the Death Star’s hull is made of Quadanium steel? The answer is no, because the factoid you just absorbed is pointless and stupid, albeit true in the minds of a million assholes who sweat when they eat.

So what’s this thing about? Instruments of Destruction is a cool name, and all I seem to be doing is hating on sci-fi fans and the obese – while casting aspersions that the two demographics have some significant overlaps. Well, I’ll tell you why we’re here, if it’ll finally shut you up.

We’re here to discuss the four greatest weapons in the history of movie-making, and assess the impact they’ve made on those around them. There would be five, but frankly, I don’t owe Chuck that big a favour.

Given the fact these are weapons, you can imagine that the impact they’ve made on those around them is little more than turning those folks into blood-coloured mush. And you’d be right to think that. That’s why they’re awesome.

Ladies. Gentlefools. This is the whacky jazz that I like.

Shit is about to get real.

4. The Three-bladed Sword.

It’s a sword that has three blades, and, like… they could fire out of it. It’s a sword that shoots swords. If you don’t like that, you need to watch less Footloose and learn about awesomeness.

The Sword and the Sorcerer was a shitty film that I hated even when I was a tinier version of the excellent soul I am now, but in all honesty, it’s difficult to raise any objections to a weapon that shoots versions of itself like spears of sweetness.

But even so, it’s low on the list.

3. The Sick Stick

In terms of sheer hilarity and real world application, nothing beats the sick sticks from Minority Report. You jab a baton into some guy’s neck (or his balls, for extra laughs), and he dials God on the big white telephone. Really, what could be better than a pokey stick that makes people chunder?

Oh, man, the things I’d do with one of these. The lives I’d ruin. The tender moments I’d fuck up. The kids I’d scar for life.

The arrests I’d resist.

2. The Lightsaber

Oh, so I’m being too obvious, am I? You know all about how these things work and you think you’re hot shit? So lightsabers have blade shroud emitters and cycling field energizers and focusing crystal activators and a bunch of other shit that is so magically important?

“No, please. Do go on.”

I don’t care. I don’t even dance vaguely close to the edge of giving half a fuck. So what does a flux capacitor in Back to the Future do? I don’t know, it… regulates the capacity of fluxes, I guess. Typing that sentence is literally the most thought I’ve ever given it, because I just don’t care. I don’t give a shit. It makes a sweet-ass car made of silver junk go back in time, and Michael J. Fox was a cowboy. Isn’t that enough? What more do you want?

If you try to explain stuff too much, you fuck it up. Let’s take pseudoscience to Spider-Man, shall we? Does it benefit him?

No, it doesn’t. Now Spider-man is in a wheelchair, all because you gave a shit about fake science. You took it too far.

A lightsaber is a sword made of awesome laser jazz that does the coolest sound ever when you turn it on, wave it about, hit stuff, or turn it off.

Name one other weapon that is as much fun to turn on and off as it is to actually kill a guy with it. I bet you can’t. And that’s why lightsabers are awesome.

Sbsssssh. Vwmmm. Vwm. Vwmmm. SKISH. SKISHSKASH. Shhhhhhhhhhhhp.

And lastly…:

1. This thing.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “You don’t even know its name,” and “That’s not a weapon, it’s a piece of shit.” Well, fuck you. Fuck you the first time, because it belonged to this guy:

“My mantits are windows.”

And fuck you the second time because this gun was awesome.

My first experience with this weapon was trying to fit it into my Optimus Prime toy’s hands, when I was, like, 6 or something. This was a challenge for some truly heartbreaking reasons that still haunt me to this day. Things initially went wrong when the gun didn’t fit the little plastic fists, and had to be held at a weird angle, so it looked like Prime was shooting 45 degrees to his left. I recall sitting there on my parents’ living room floor, holding the box in my hands, staring in heart-wrenching disbelief at the picture… then looking up at Transformers on the TV… and in both media presentations, Prime was holding the gun normally and not like Jason Meyer, the kid down the street who cried all the time and drooled on himself.

The bad times continued when, in robot mode, Prime’s fists were detachable and about the size of Tic-tacs. The box could literally have come with a warning: ‘Caution – You will lose these tiny bastards totally fast.’ This combination of flaws – a fuckup duology, if you will – meant that for the very few seconds I owned both fists before inevitably losing them, Optimus Prime couldn’t shoot for shit, and Megatron got away.

Then Prime’s hands fell off, and although I was able to come up with a convincing storyline to cover this development, it was a contributing factor in why I preferred Star Wars toys.

So why is this gun so great? Because in the Transformers animated movie in 1986, Optimus Prime used this gun to kill – actually kill – Decepticons. As in, I was 6 years old, and my cartoon hero flew through the air, machine-gunned several of the bad guys into actual robotic graves, murdering the shit out of them with punishing-ass laser fire.

As the scene unfolded, I felt myself feeling strange, new sensations. I had no idea what to say to girls, but I knew with fierce intensity that I had to see (and indeed, feel) dem titties. I tried to call my parents to ask for some juice, but my voice was nineteen octaves lower, and I accidentally demanded a beer.

My balls hung pendulously from that moment on, and a beard sweated out of my cheeks in mere moments.

Because of this gun… I was a man.

And that’s why it’s the greatest weapon ever in movies, and people who think Wolverine’s claws are better all smell like bat piss.