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January 15, 2009 |

By Brian Prisco | Eloquent Eloquence | January 15, 2009 |

Awards Season! Awards Season! I kinda share Dan’s disdain towards 2008 for movies. While I loved Slumdog Millionaire with the burning passion of a thousand suns, and was thrilled to see it snatch everything at the Golden Globes, for everything else I’m a little humdrum. Even in my beloved indie world, I was extremely underwhelmed. In Bruges was the tits, because Martin McDonagh is a god. When they start doing up his catalog for the silver screen, buy an umbrella because my joygasm will get sticky in your hair. I’m kind of juiced for Adventureland in the middle March, and probably Coraline.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t know better. I love talking movies, but I can’t talk with most … well, we call you people Normies. I remember the days of listening to Adam Sandler’s CDs, and enjoying cheesy fucking comedies. Now, 75 percent of the movies I watch make my stomach ache and my bile rise. Of course that could just be the GERD. I worry sometimes if I’ve become too elitist. When I sit places with most of the hoi polloi that make up the common folk, and they start talking about TV or Movies they love, I just sit quietly, smiling like a lobotomized monkey. Because I can’t tell these people “I hated that movie, and I think that people who like things like that should be forcibly sterilized.” I feel terrible that I think that way sometimes.

But then I come here to our little cynical freakshow of hipster denial and realize that I am not alone. I love getting film recommendations from you people — Noriko’s Dinner Table sits on my table as I type this. I love being told what books to read, and knowing that others have April on their calendar as the release of the next Harry Dresden novel. I love that I can Twitter a Highlander review, and people go apeshit. I love that people get so fervently upset about things and fight and spew at each other. I love that!

But seriously. Our best arguments this year were that none of us know shit about television (except Beckyloo, who actually gets paid to write for television) and the great Iron Man vs. The Dark Knight debacle. Some of our wise debates break down into vigorously lame shit. We start flinging around misogyny and pop-feminism. Someone breaks out a joke about Palin’s daughter’s oopsie and it becomes a disgustingly shameful flamewar. And the accusations are mostly, “Don’t you got a sense of humor, knuckleheads?” We’re not idiots, and I’ll be dipped in shit before I start demanding we chlorinate the pool up in here, but comrades. Can we make 2009 about why we’re better than everyone else instead of breaking down into monkey shines? How else will we gather cannon fodder at SXSW for the impending zombie invasion?

The following countdown is only less impressive than the one towards Potato Head’s eviction notice from 1600 Pennsy Ave.

10. I dated a guy in high school whose mother had a habit of telling people that Tommy Lee Jones and Al Gore were roommates. Each and every time she would see one of them or hear one of their names she would announce to whomever was in earshot, “Did you know that Tommy Lee Jones and Al Gore were roommates at Harvard?” Sometimes she would just randomly say it over dinner or while playing cards. It was almost like a nervous tic. I can safely say that within the 13 months we dated, I heard his mother say this at least 50 or 60 times. — superEdna

(This happens to me with references to Scranton. My parents and most of my immediately family are from the great coalcracker region. It was why I squeed with delight when I saw that ref in Highlander.)

9. I don’t know why, but they ran a trailer for this…this thing … (Bride Wars) before Let The Right One In.

It was offensive. Like a skidmark in your dates underpants before you make wild, passionate vampire sexy times.

I wanted to punch the back of the person’s head in front of me for no reason, and I knew I would never be the person I was before those few terrible, soul melting minutes were thrust upon me.

Kinda reminded me of Christmas with my family. — boo

8. My MIL’s neighbor was drinking that Clamato shit on New Year’s Eve. My FIL (who is Mexican … trust me, it’s important) brought a few cans of it over to try and get rid of it, because he hated it.

So this neighbor is not really that smart about some things. She seems very intelligent in some ways, but I don’t think she has much common sense.
I noticed that whatever it was she was drinking was bright pink and looked like ass, so I asked her what it was. She proudly held up the can like it was some kind of prize, and I literally recoiled when I saw it. This is then how the conversation went:

Her: “What?”

Me: “Do you know what you’re drinking?”

Her: “Beer and Clamato! It’s like a fancy beer.”

Me: “Why would anyone think dehydrated clams go with beer?”

Her: “WHAT?? Clams?!”

Me: “Clamato is tomato juice mixed with dehydrated clam powder, or something.”

Her: *immediately runs to the kitchen and throws up in the sink* “I thought it was some kind of fancy Mexican word!” *to my FIL* “You tricked me! You said it was good!”

Him: *laughing uncontrollably*

The best part is once she got over the shock, she realized she enjoyed it after all and kept drinking it. — Snath

7. This past summer my best friend’s father (drunkenly) dared me to (drunkenly) take a bite of one of his garden’s habaneros. I did so, and quickly learned that I hate all people, all plant life, and that cackling Italian men are not to be trusted. — Julie

(Hee hee hee hee. I’m half Italian and half Irish. The most important quality in a future mate is the ability to take a punch.)

6. When asked if Pookie was a Spambot:

You know, did you get paid for talking about sex? Or were you an automatic lunchmeat? — Cindy

(Our spambots have gotten lame. Seriously, we need to include even more scatological references and mention of the unblinking eye if we’re ever going to truly make the baby Jesus cry.)

5. I don’t really need to read movie reviews any longer. If my 12 y.o. sees an ad and pronounces a movie “Cute,” I know it will be terrible. It’s sad, because she used to have good taste, and I had high hopes for her since she is the only one in her peer group with no use for Twilight. But lately she’s developed a fondness for Adam Sandler movies, and I think that means I should probably start drug-testing her. — Wednesday

4. And count me in as one who has never watched “24” either. I’m afraid I’d spend each episode waiting for “Maggots, Michael. You’re eating maggots.” — AlabamaPink

(I’ve stopped taking pride in not having seen television shows. My brother keeps trying to sell me on “24”. I keep trying to insist Jack Bauer enlist the help of the Frog Brothers. The only thing I’ve got to look forward to are Dan’s “Lost” recaps.)

3. Last night, I was at the Guest Services desk at my theater when a family comes up, having just seen Marley and Me. The father says,
“Man, nobody told us that movie was going to be so sad.”
And I replied,
“Yes, I know. It’s a shame what’s happened to Owen Wilson’s career isn’t it.” — MrDylan

(I used to work at a movie theatre. This was way back in the day. My two proudest achievements are booting a gaggle of preteen girls from a screening of There’s Something About Mary and making them see Ever After, and telling John Popper of Blues Traveler (who lived in my small town of Quakertown) to “Enjoy your Dick.”)

2. “And in conclusion, ‘There can be only one!’” was how I ended my very last debate in high school. Looking back on it, I think everyone was relieved when I graduated. — zoe

(Our high school debate team — since we were a public school — used to dress in all black. We were from Quakertown High School. Whenever opposing teams would near us, we would pause and stare silently at them until they left. They asked us if we were Quakers. We would nod and shun them. We brought a team of eight scrappy public school kids to a forensics tournament and beat the hell out of four private school teams with their little fucking blazers and ties. I felt like Dangerous Minds. We pulled an Amish drive-by on their buses as we left. It took three hours, was done by buggy, and involved muskets.)

1. Kate Hudson is proof that Goldie Hawn’s worst work wasn’t limited to the 90s. — blue83

(Shoot, score! Simple and gorgeous.)


You’re my boy — or potentially and more probably girl — blue83. Please provide us with something borrowed, something you, something old and something new. And the address upon which you’d care to receive the shirt. This must be sent to the emperor of our gynocracy, dustin at pajiba dot com.

I figure this’ll be a better week with the advent of Obama’s reign of terror, “American Idol” savaging yet more cripples, and “Lost: Season 5.” So keep it clean, come out fighting, and “Top That!”

The Top 10 Comments of the Week / Brian Prisco

Eloquent Eloquence | January 15, 2009 |

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