Well, the EIC (Editor In Chief—you may remember her—
—yeah, that’s her) asked me to write a review on Christmas movies as the holidays approach.
Lumbering. Mindless. Seemingly limitless. These holidays aren’t human. They don’t feel pain.
They can’t be reasoned with.
I told her I didn’t feel like it. I find the holidays condemning. Except for New Year’s Eve. New
Year’s is awesome.
Here’s why, coming from a boy who grew up in the country: low hanging fruit.
Go to any bar (try and get there somewhat early, but try not to get TOO fucked up before
midnight—there’s time for all that filthy degeneracy later) and look for the one or two chicks sitting at a bar, seemingly remorseful over this lost, lonely year. If you can try and—fuck, hold on a second. The Editor In Chaps is calling.
I guess she’s pissed. Does that twirl actually hack into this computer and read this shit as I’m typing it? Am I even getting paid this week? Life is a vicious circle.
Anyway, because I think Christmas is shitty, here are some movies you shouldn’t watch, but you will because you’re a bunch of contrary ass hyenas. You’re the type of vermin who go to petting zoos just to remark on how tasty the rabbits look to their owners, any of whom would happily sell them to you for the low, low price of $1.99 per baby bunny and club them to death and field clean them in front of you and your ungrateful children, who, while maybe not fully appreciating the gesture and lesson in lagamorph anatomy being presented, will nonetheless learn “just how far daddy’s really willing to go if he sees another C-minus on a report card.”
This sucks, because I just started reading the press on the CIA’s “Torture Report” as I was going to write this, so as you can tell, it affected my mood.
Just watch your movies, you jackals.
Die Hard. First of all, there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with watching this on Christmas
Eve. This movie rocks so hard, Bill Haley and the Comets actually gave it a solid gold clock for
rocking around. Everything in this movie is kick ass. The problem is that your wife/significant
other/bird who’s spending every last nickel of your savings buying shoes and shit on is going
to hate it because John McClane’s character’s wife’s character is basically doing just that,
and girls don’t want to be reminded of the fact that they’re essentially just 5-foot, 5-inch-tall
mosquitoes with expensive handbags and too much eye makeup and will ditch your sorry ass
for any coke-sniffing corporate shill jagoff who can offer them a penthouse view. Yeah, it
doesn’t get more romantic than this, boys. Even though McClane has to crawl through some
dusty ass vent to try and save his useless colostomy bag of a wife and gets the living shit
kicked out of him for his trouble.
You know what? Do put this movie on. See what happens. It’s not like terrorists are going to take over Nakatomi Plaza or anything. Like what happened at Thanksgiving.
Oh, well. At least I wasn’t forced into a stress position for up 48 hours at a time under a blinding white light while some asshole was playing “Achy Breaky Heart” on a boom box over and over.