Cram it up your cram hole!.

8:00 pm, December 19, 2004

It's not something I'm particularly used to. And yet, it's unavoidable.

Consider, realistically, the percentage of people who get to do what they actually want to do for a living. It can't be that high. Maybe 1 in 5? 1 in 10? Is even that too generous?

This is what you get when you fuck around with your life. You get a week full of working followed by two days of watching rented movies. You know, if I didn't have things to look forward to, cementing my bleak life at 23 would really bug the hell out of me.

We're talking my number one fear here, and I'm all but assured of it coming true. Living just enough, just enough, for the weekend. You got your nine to five (or in my case, your seven to three), you've got your Monday through Friday, and you've got your weekends for fun. Except, of course, you're so burned out from the Monday through Friday, seven to three, that you use your weekends for recuperation. Sleeping more and watching movies and the dogs are getting on your nerves and won't leave you alone and, what's this? It's dark and it's 4:30, and the Colts are sucking it up, and I'm gonna lose my playoff fantasy football game because Marvin Harrison is laying a huge egg against the Baltimore Ravens defense. That's hell, folks. Down by six points in a Fantasy Football playoff game, watching a meaningless game of NFL football in hopes that your player will garner the required points to post a temporary lead, only to be stripped from you on Monday night, but to no avail, because your player doesn't get you SHIT! At least the music's good in hell.

So, on your weekends when you're recuperating, your little west and wewaxation (Elmer PHD, people, get in the game! I tot I taw a puddy tat. No, that's Tweety. Be vewwy vewwy qwiet. I'm hunting wabbits. That's it.), all you're thinking about is your two weeks vacation. Maybe I'll call in sick on Christmas Eve, then I can go to my mom's Christmas party on time. But, I'm sorry Tiny Tim, you've got Visa bills to pay. Suck it up. I'll probably just end up drinking at my mom's party, drive home, get pulled over, and spend Christmas in the klink. Or, who knows, maybe I'll hit a few mailboxes on my drive home. As we all know seven beers IS a killer.

Of course, when you GET to your two weeks vacation, all you're doing is sitting on your fat ass wishing you had more time off. My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. Fatty made a funny (seriously, if you ever end up renting Dodgeball, fast forward through the credits. Good thing I had my Pull Ups on, because I was pissing myself laughing).

This is where addiction rears its head. When you lose all hope. Thankfully I'm not quite at that point yet. Of course, mental anguish KILLS in the sticks. And then some fuck writes some book about a Lemony Snicket and a bunch of snot noses and lo and behold, a fucking blockbuster. Dig it, to make it in writing nowadays, you gotta focus all your efforts at fucking kids because adults are too fucking lazy and stupid to read anything anyway. Of course, that fucking means I can't fucking swear, even though I sure as shit know I would've fucking LOVED a good story about ass raping a retarded kangaroo when I was mothercunting 11 years old. God damned standards and practices.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Dodgeball's a pretty entertaining movie, I must say. And as entertaining as that movie was, I Robot was just as taint-sucking shitty. NO GRUNDLE! NO GRUNDLE! Of course, if you're looking for a good time, there's The Rundown. You'll be facing a little thunder and lightning if you DON'T see that movie!

Here's something a little different. Tom Hanks in the Coen Brother's latest (and for the uninitiated, the Coen Brothers created The Big Lebowski, O Brother Where Art Thou?, Raising Arizona, Fargo) film, The Lady Killers. With the Coens, you never get a traditional comedy. There's generally a theme to go along with it. Some sense of a greater purpose that's never prevalent on the first viewing. If you take a closer look at The Big Lebowski, it's actually a critique on the current art scene and mainly the shitty side of it. Take the porno maker, take the feminist painter creating vaginal artwork, take the landlord and his interperetive dance, take the band Autobahn and their "technopop" music from the 70s, take the insane dream-dance sequence, take the room-tying rug, take the Branded TV show creator in his personal life-support chamber and his dunce for a son (please!). With Fargo, you've got the dichodomy of right vs. wrong and its consequences. Taking a risk vs. taking what you have and making the best of it. The choices involved. Raising Arizona, you've got the rich vs. the poor, and when is it right to pull a Robin Hood to better your own lot in life? (as you can see, I watch a lot of movies). Well, with The Lady Killers, some sort of remake from a few decades ago, you've got this gospel theme running through. There's this innocence vs. impurity thing. There's a lot of unspoken spiritual themes I couldn't quite grasp. For a first viewing, I'd have to say that I enjoyed it far more than the first time I saw the Big Lebowski, but I practically HATED that movie when I first saw it. But, I don't see the Lady Killers stacking up. It's worth the price of the rental to see Stephen Root acting (he's also in Dodgeball, a wonderful double-whammy), and to hear Marlon Wayans (THE most underrated Wayans brother in showbusiness, he's a phenominal actor in Requiem for a Dream) say, "You brought yo BITCH to the Waffle Hut?"

And now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna see Tom Cruise and another underrated In Living Color alum Jaime Foxx in the FIFTH movie my dad rented this weekend, Collatoral. Bless us oh lord . . .

Current Mood: I'm proud of you, and Ringo here, he's proud of you too. Tell her you're proud of her.
Current Music: Frank Black - Man of Steel