Tuesday, May 19, 2009

The worst movie ever. A review.

So, I know. I pretty much flaked out on the end my 30 days/30 dollars blog. Story of my life right? The good news? I finished it. The diet that is, not the blog. I made it all the way through. The diet, not the blog. Lost a couple pounds, learned that being poor sucks, gained the weight back, and have resumed my regular daily activities. Two days ago I even ate leftover lentils and spinach.

So I’ve been putting off writing. I’ve been talking about writing again, and its been just that: talk, talk, talk. As usual. What inspired me tonight? The worst fucking movie in the history of movies, that’s what!

I pretty much pride myself on not crying in movies. It’s not that I make an effort, or that I’m a heartless bitch (I hope), I just usually don’t attach myself to characters enough in the space of an hour and a half to shed tears for them. It’s just always been that way for me. Whatever.

But tonight, I balled my eyes out like a newborn fucking baby.

Granted, it might have been PMS. It’s that “time of the month” so I’m not going to rule that out, because that certainly could have played a big part in it. Or, I coulda just had a rough day. I WAS pretty pissed today when the guy with the peace-sign necklace declared with enthusiasm “I’m just waiting for that man to get assassinated!” He was talking about Obama, by the way. I threw up, and politely pointed out that such an event would probably be devastating for the country in general, to which he snorted, and continued being a gigantic asshole (wearing a peace-sign necklace). Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for dissent and freedom of speech, and that crap. I think I’ve made my feelings on the last administration clear, and I totally support that jack-ass’s right to act like the giant d-bag he is. I just don’t find assassination a laughing matter.

And I’d say I was pretty close to tears when “H,” an entirely different person than aforementioned peace-sign necklace wearing guy, in an entirely different conversation, declared, upon seeing a picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. on the TV, “They need to just let that somofabitch stay dead!” Seriously? I’ve met carnies with better manners. If I believed in God, I’d say he’s abandoned us for bad behavior. While I am strongly opposed to the idea of reviving the actual MLK, I’m fairly (as in, EXTREMELY) opposed to letting his legacy STAY DEAD. But (breathe deeply) I do (breathe deeply) believe in everyone’s (even you, Miss California!) (breathe deeply) right to express their opinions. Along those lines, Peace-Sign Necklace Guy and “H” and Miss California, it is also my right to call you out, you Bitch Face Velociraptors! The Rock of Love Bus girls know better than to say such hateful things.

Then I got rear-ended on the way home from work, which woulda been all right, since there doesn’t appear to be any damage to the car. Were it not for two things. 1) The beeznotch was driving a BMW SUV, and 2) she wouldn’t just say she was sorry. Seriously, lady, its okay! I’m not going to sue you, a simple apology will do! I know you need your excessively-large vehicle for when you go off-roading, or to Saks, or Whole Foods, or PTA, or whatever. And I’m sure it felt like just a “tap” when you barreled into the back of me. But I’m not trying to scam you when I ask you for your insurance information, I just want to make sure my car is okay! The fact that that the roots of your obviously high-end blonde coiffure AREN’T grown out (unlike my own) indicates to me that you can afford, and most likely have, top of the line insurance (unlike my own). So, suck it up. Give me your info. I know it doesn’t look like you did any damage to my car (because my car is a fucking awesome super-hero tank) but I’d just like to have your info, in case my fucking muffler drops off tomorrow. Is that okay? Oh, you want to be nice now? What, what, you don’t want me to get the police involved? Well, actually that’s okay. I’m pretty nice, and, while you were a bitch at first, I can see your husband is probably just a dick, and you don’t want to have to explain all this to him. I forgive you. Just don’t take it out on other people in the future.

So I guess I was pretty okay by the time I got home. And then along comes Marley and Me, like a fucking punch to the gut, and I’m gushing like Niagra Freakin Falls. Thanks, Marley, Thanks. You fight like Mike Tyson, only not as sportmanship-like. Public service announcement: Never, under any conditions, ever, EVER watch this piece of filth! Owen Wilson, how dare you! Jennifer Anniston, I know you’ve been through a lot, what with that trash-bag stealing your smoking hot man-candy husband (hot damn, he used to be hot) and everything. But, come on! You stayed hot, and he didn’t age that well, and Angie isn’t looking that good either. Haven’t you had your revenge? Do the children really need to be exposed to THIS?

Dogs don’t die, Owen and Jennifer!!!! They snuggle and love, and drool and beg, and roll over, and tilt their heads in confused and endearing ways forever! They don’t die! So suck it!