Fucked movie logic

I feel like I did a pretty good job on some of my blog posts.  I feel like this one is crappy, so don’t bother failing to comment to tell me about how fail it is, I already know. 

I once started to make a list of movie clichés I was sick of seeing play out, and then I found out that on Ebert’s site, he actually has a complete anthology of all of them.  You know, like the one slow clapper at the end of a film that gets the crowd to start clapping for the unlikely hero…or the angry tearful fighting between a man and a woman that will ALWAYS result in them fucking… those sorts of stupid, retarded, only in movies type shit.

A few things I’ve learned about movies include, if a woman throws up, or touches her belly, she’s pregnant.  Queue director: “okay, so in this scene you’re starting to really think about what this pregnancy is going to mean and what you’re going through…” Actress: furrows brow, looks down in mirror at her stomach that she touches gingerly…  Yeah.  There are only so few ways they know how to communicate these things.  You know without a doubt if they show her throwing up, it’s meaningful.  People don’t use the bathroom in movies unless it’s to get their junk stuck in a zipper, take a pregnancy test, hide from an attacker, or to slow a loveless empty marriage where two people floss and brush teeth in as unsexy a manner as they can to prove their love is gone. 

Is it true that every parent coming to visit or mother in law coming to stay is some witty version of Jane Fonda that’s going to make under the breath stabs at you every moment?  Granted, I know there are some parents like that… but more than likely, they are the same, clueless bumbling parents they were when you were little, that hurt you more with comments like “you really shouldn’t have seconds” or “no, your father and I prefer staying in a hotel, thanks.”  They bring you a present that’s a shitty T-shirt that doesn’t fit and would be too obnoxious to wear anyway, and constantly comment about how your city is just not like home yet don’t return there soon enough.  Not everyone’s in-laws are aging movie stars that wear Ralph Lauren to the county fair.  Some, yes.  But every single one? No.

Likewise, the adorable blonde that slings herself onto the barstool doesn’t happen to do so next to a down and out yet perfectly successful bill paying intelligent yet jaded wanker with heart.  At least, not in the bars I’ve been to.  Unless by adorable blonde you mean strung out talentless moron who isn’t going to try out and successfully sling drinks for Coyote Ugly and perfect jaded guy is some jesus freak warrior that wants to tell you about his ministry that he got into after deep soul searching while incarcerated, his restraining orders from his ex wife, the kids he was accused of beating, and the horse stables he now mucks.  True story, I met that guy.  I’m sort of blonde, hardly adorable, but at least what I’m saying here is odds are against either one of those well adjusted people showing up ready to rom com it up, even if one showed up, it will never be both at the same time, and most likely will be someone one chapter from a murderous rampage over a parking lot space dispute.

Blah blah blah but movies are fiction and about escapism so the impossible happens… yeah, sure.  But, how does this explain the clueless mother who doesn’t realize her new boyfriend and her son are wrestling and trying to kill each other when she leaves the room?  Or how some failure at life moron suddenly becomes the guardian for an orphaned kid because some BIGGER moron knew in their heart of hearts that if they died suddenly and inexplicably, their kid would be better off being raised by a childless immature alcoholic that needed a baby thrust into their lives to bring out their inner shine?  Considering that kind of reasoning, sadly, the kid IS better off because the original parent IS FUCKING STUPID.

Movies about some sort of apocalypse must zoom in on a nutjob with a sandwich board.   Kid adventure stories must start with an eye rolling forlorn looking kid hearing their busy, working, single parent bark words of caution to them before scrambling out the door and leaving said kid alone to get into trouble.  Dramas about someone stumbling onto information they shouldn't know start with their mundane morning commute, coffee purchase, and "hello" to the building security guard.  Oh, how normal their life was, just yesterday.    GAAAH POST IS SO ANGSTY i can't even finish it.  No, I guess I can.  Bored irritated hipster shuts laptop with a snap in a moment of frustration that life is just too much to deal with right now, so they leave their upscale amazing apartment in a swank neighborhood to throw back drinks at an awesome local bar where... an adorable blonde slides in next to them absolutely ready to notice that they’re different.

A PESTILENCE ON YOUR HOUSE!

Honestly, we really need to bring back the proper insult.  I feel we’ve just let things devolve to the simplest form, and in doing so took hairspray flame napalm to an entire Who-Ville world of possibility. 

Today’s parking lot fights over a spot are so predictable. 

“Hey! That was my spot, I was waiting for it!” 

“Hey, Fuck you!”

“WHAT?  No, Fuck YOU!” 

I mean, has it deteriorated so exceedingly far that both sides of a fight use the same coup d'etat thereby making the entire conflict end on what is unfortunately a tone of agreement, don’t you think?  Yeah, fuck you too.  So they’ve decided they should each receive a fuck, but does that leave anyone thinking later… HOW COULD HE SAY THAT TO ME?

Those words just aren’t haunting to anyone.  Now this one, this one is bound to get someone – and by someone, I mean the only person I’m certain reads any of this:

“You egg, you fry of treachery.”  (or at least were collected by said Treachery).

Shakespeare had some dooseys, but I admittedly had to google that one, so I’m putting the limit at one source check here.  Mostly problematic because I prove my own premise, I too have become pretty shitty had good insults.  While I do in fact like “A plague on your house!” It’s not that gratifying in a shopping mall fight.  Rosie O’Donnell was on the right path when she said “I hope you get cancer,” although it loses something when you start knowing people that get or die of cancer.  It’s not quite so… insulting.  And instead it’s just, well, pathological. 

Perhaps the best approach would be to assume the unexpected, like brain damage or mental retardation.  “whoa, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were…special.”  You just have to give the right inflection.  A sudden change of reaction based on some fabricated perceived defect with someone might sneak up on them later… or even an unplanned (yet planned) sudden outburst like “you saw me waiting fo… holy shit your eyes are close together.”  That sort of thing… THAT they will remember.  Imagine a giant bug on their face when you react and say it, like you’d do anything to not have to look at them anymore, including concede and argument.  That might do it.

Sure, maybe “hobo plagued dandelion” lacks the impact that “Fuck you, you lazy sack of shit, maybe if you sang louder they’d have heard you…”  Though maybe that’s moot, because I’m pretty sure if any garden flower I came across made a sudden and unexplainable noise like that, my first instinct would be to kill it with fire.  I know this because I’ve already tested what flora is flammable, and I didn’t even have to hear it sing to pursue it. 

Fucking magnets, how do they work?

I recently made a Victoria’s Secret purchase.  I might be shitty at spending gift certificates in a timely fashion, but I’m fucking awesome at keeping them.  I know for a fact one of them was an engagement present, so that thing was at least 8 years old…and one was from a birthday before that.  You know what?  Not a single one lost any value.  Yeah, I know, I know, California passed a law about gift certificates retaining their value… and I’d have to google what year that passed… and then I’d be doing research for a blog (fuck that)….

Anyway, I had $190 worth of gift certificates saved up, so I went on a lazy shopping spree (yes, from my computer).  And damn, not only does VS know their fucking business (my shit arrived in like 3 days!), they have the architecture and engineering down like a fucking boss.  In fact, my new bathing suit DOES make me look like I have a fucking rack and a half.  And that lace thingy with the red and the garters?  Yeah, that thing?  Effective.  Very effective.  And surprisingly comfortable.  And supportive.  For being… essentially nothing.  It's like magic, really, seems improbable, yet, there they are.  Kudos, dood who sold his VS business for next to nothing and kicks himself daily for selling…great idea! Too bad it’s no longer yours!

Anyway, after my swank purchase, I am of course plagued with the daily VS email about clearance and sales and promotions… Every day, a new hot chick in my mailbox, frolicking around in the surf, writhing around on the dock… promoting cheaper and cheaper versions of herself.  It’s like we had our moment.  And now… now she’s just letting me know exactly how pathetic and dirty she’ll get for my repeat business.  Either I was duped before into thinking she was some sort of merchandise goddess, or I’m only now seeing how that slut bag will do just about anything for a couple bucks. 

Thanks, Vicky, but I’m good for right now.  And you’re starting to look desperate.  Put some fucking clothes on and try your sales pitch without your finger pulling down the side of your lip, you’re starting to look like a mouth breather.  With a hip problem.  Seriously, who juts their hip out that far to the side so your entire body looks like a scoliosis S curve?  Oh right, people with scoliosis.  My bad.

 

You, you fucking didn't. Try again.

You know what, I’m not much of a fan of “oh, I’m asking for a friend.”  That joke might have been funny the first time an 18 yr old in 1991 asked how much the 36 count box of condoms behind the counter was, but it was only funny because he was actually serious and no one believed him.  It’s subtle, people, but it requires a slightly less narcissistic person to actually get the humor.

Allow me to explain.  I find twitter quite entertaining.  In fact, I was sort of surprised at what began as a bullshit, secret account where I could bitch without my sister reading it, that became a great medium of expression.  And not only that, when you come into contact with other real actual humans, there’s something nice that happens there.

But this post isn’t about that, I’ll write another day about the adorable gay man I have a huge crush on or the awesome single mom midwife that fucking does it all and manages to remain human and intriguing at the same time. (This is where I’d insert a hyperlink, but because I hate blogs that do all that kind of shit, maybe I’ll just post a link to it at the bottom).   This post is about the self centered fucking morons that use twitter as one big hyperbole piece of shit “asking for a friend” waste receptacle of the stupid fucking ideas they come up with to tweet.

You know why you sound stupid?  Because you’re trying, and it’s obvious, and no one thinks for a moment you did what you claim you did.  That’s why.  No, you didn’t beat up an old lady.  You didn’t annoy your neighbors by prancing around naked.  No, we don’t believe you that you just “showed your co-worker who’s boss,” or that you were flippant to your boss at work. 

No, we know that you shut your fucking mouth at work, you tweet from a bathroom stall, and you’re sure as hell not handing out beatings left and right.  Unless right now you are dictating to the cop filling out paperwork to catalogue the pile of your confiscated items sitting on the desk next to him, hoping he’ll send your last tweet from the holding tank, “So how much time do you get for slapping the shit out of a stupid salesclerk?  Asking for a friend.”






Aforementioned blog: http://citymidwife.blogspot.com/

My magical pants have a message. That message is, "Fuck you."

So I have a fucking magical pair of pants.  Magic, you say?  As in, they can travel from person to person, improbably flattering 3 skinny chicks and one fat one?  No, moron, and thanks for outing both of us for knowing that stupid plot.

These are vindictively magical, psychologically brutal pants.  How so, you ask?  Well, these jeans fit, but with that reminder that perhaps dessert should be an apple, not a brownie.  Sure, probably not the best fit ever, but that’s their power. They fit, although they have that slight whisper that, you know, maybe you could lay off the salt, you might be retaining.  When I originally purchased these pants, appreciating that they fit without that stupid gap in the back or any of the other million ways jeans can be so ill-fitting on a girl who's NEVER complained "why is my butt flat! *pouty face*"  I did what you're are supposed to do when you find gapless pants: I purchased two pairs of them. 

Yet I think only this one pair is magical.  The other, I don’t notice.  I feel good wearing them, they’re comfortable, and they fit.  But this pair, this pair is just cranky as fuck.

So…time passes, and I lose 5lbs.  And what do you know?  Said pants still fit.  However, they have now decided to let me think about all my past mistakes, concentrating on my waist, giving me that self conscious worry that I’m muffin topping all over the place.  What about 5 lbs ago?  Where was this horrible feeling then?  How did these pants fit then if I am noticing now that they feel too snug? 

Somewhere there is a painting of my jeans, flopping around, stretched out beyond usefulness.

So more time passes, and I lose another 5lbs.  I triumphantly return to The Pants, in hopes that they finally concede defeat.  Mr. Belt, not so magical, now needs to go down a notch size.   However, magically, Mr. Pants have seen my 5lbs, and raised me an extra snug feeling in the thigh.  Seriously, pants? Really? I lose 5lbs, you magically shrink and find a new way to make me feel a little pudgy?  What the fuck did my thighs do between now and last month? It's not the salsa stain, is it?  Are you that petty?

Stupid pants.

I knew my pants which preceded these were done the day I went to pull them off to pee and realized I hadn’t undone a button or zipper to get them around my ankles.  Yet, The Pants have no such intention of being here today, gone tomorrow.  I should invite over 3 friends so we can all try them on and hate ourselves just a little bit more.

Vanity... fuck you.

My first entry should have been entitled who the fuck reads this crap, because obviously I don’t, or didn't, from the number of edits I was compelled to do after seeing it posted.  And I know this because I fucking read my own blog.  For the love of all that is made with blueberries (really, what ISN’T good with blueberries??*), if there’s anything I loathe more than blogs it’s ones that are hastily and poorly written.

*Take a tub of blueberries.  Score the bottom of each one.  Drop into sealable container filled with vodka that has been every so slightly watered down.  THIS IS IMPORTANT.  Place in the refrigerator for 1 day, then into the freezer.  The day in the fridge will allow the blueberries to absorb the vodka.  The water in the vodka will allow the vodka to freeze.  Once frozen, add to your drink.  Delicious, AND alcoholic.  You're welcome!

Who the fuck writes this crap

 

I have to admit, I hate blogs.  Loooooaaathe them.  In general, anyway.   Sure, they have their place.  Friends or family separated by distance, perhaps they use it to catch up.  Maybe you blather on about your family and how you finally brought little timmy to go cut down his own chirstmas tree.  Blogs are great for this because your friends that don’t really care can not really read them. 

Maybe it's thematic and professional – like a blog about an expert beer maker.  Or maybe it’s your uncle and his terrible blog about how he makes shitty beer, and when he takes photos of the process he doesn’t wear a shirt and his belly always photobombs the hops. 

While there are plenty that I have freely enjoyed, there's mostly big steaming piles of shit.  Allow me to point out the things you do with your blog that probably annoy.  Feel free to list my blog among them.

1. You list things.  And not just an awesome top 10 best break up songs list, but your individual numbers go on FOR PAGES.  You bother to use numbers which alerts us that despite the length and relative dullness of your first few pages, you intend to then attack this subject from a new angle under a new numbered paragraph.  Which, you might just read in utter amazement that someone could go on that long.  Or not.

2. (shhh, it’s called irony). (Also, the incorrect usage of irony).  (And maybe punctuation.)

3. Excessive use of wikipedia, hyperlinks, and otherwise stupid references to belabor your point and help you make believe you are some sort of an expert on a topic because you drone on about it to excess, and have your links to prove it.  God.  Just eat your gun now.  We can all agree you’re not an expert on anything, and more to the point, we don’t give a shit. 

That’s all I’ve got.  If I write any more, I’m going to hate my own blog more than I already do.