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November 19, 2009

The Box (May Sucketh)


I’m going to give a movie review.  Because?  I feel like it.  No, I do not do this professionally (yet) and no one is asking me to do this, I’m just a giver.  What can I say?  I’m going to talk about The Box.  If you have not seen it, and plan to, you should stop reading now as I am going to spoil it for you.  Like, in a big way.  Fair warning.

***Spoilers*** (But really?  I’M saving YOU money).

The movie takes place in 1976  and honestly, it drives me nuts when movies take place in the 70s unless there are disco balls involved and/or white pimp suits.  There were none of those.

Let us (by us, I mean, me and my split personalities) begin:

Okay, the opening scene involves some sort of memo being typed across the giant movie screen, something about a dude named Arlington Steward being burned and he is delivering shit to people.  Not actual shit, but I’m using that as a general term, as I often do.  There’s mention of the Mars project.  Yeah.  I should have known right then and there, that I would be wanting to HANG MYSELF by minute 26 into the movie.

So, there’s this couple, Norma and Arthur Lewis, and early one morning, their doorbell rings and wakes them.  Norma is the one to get up – I’m guessing because Arthur is a big pussy who obviously doesn’t care if his wife gets stabbed in the face by the home invaders, except it’s 1976 and I’m fairly certain there were no stabby home invaders back then.  Plus, this is not that kind of movie, so there was no stabbing (unfortunately).  I personally would have loved TO STAB THE WHOLE MOVIE in it’s STUPID FACE.  Sorry, I digress… Truth be told, home invaders don’t usually ring the doorbell.  Just sayin’.

Norma, the less lame of the two, opens the front door to find a box wrapped in brown paper, sitting on their step.  She sees a black car drive away (don’t ask me what kind of car, I don’t know cars and neither does Norma.  IT WAS BLACK.  That is the extent of my, and Norma’s, car knowledge), and picks up the box and brings it in the house.

By this time, Arthur, the lamesauce husband, has come down the stairs and they stare at the box.  Their son, Walter,  (smartest character in the whole movie) is at the top of the stairs, asking if Santa has come early.  No, Santa is fat and lazy (and only pretends to be jolly), he does not come early, little boy.

The semi-good looking family (boy is super cute) sit at the table (and OMG y’all, the wallpaper is fucking fug.  Right, it’s 1976, sorry, forgot) and stare at the box.  They open it to find a wooden box with a glass dome on the top that houses a button.  Like a big button.  One that you sooo want to press.  But it’s locked.  However, there is a key and a note.  What does the note say?  It says, “THIS MOVIE SUCKS CAMEL DONG AND YOU SHOULD GET YOUR MONEY BACK.”  Er, I mean it says something about a Mr. Steward will come to their home at 5 p.m.  They are all, like, who is Mr. Steward?

Arthur works at NASA as something kinda important (ish) - something to do with optics – and he thinks he’s all a big shot because he helped design the Viking Mars probe camera thingie <— tech term.  Arthur hopes to be like one of those dudes that go into space – right, an astronaut – but he failed his test.  LAME-O.  He didn’t seem like an artard (well, sometimes he did) but it was his psych exam that he was a douche on, so that means NASA thinks he’s NUTS.  Too nuts for space, my friend.  And really, any guy who lets his wife go answer the door at 5 a.m. ish, deserves to fail LIFE.

Norma, who limps (you’ll find out why, I won’t spoil that for you – ’cause I’m all sweet and stuff), heads to her job as a teacher at a shee-shee-foo-foo private school.  Their son Walter attends the school, but sadly the school is doing away with employee discount shit and Norma and Arthur won’t be able to afford the tuition for their boy.  What does that have to do with anything?  NOT A FUCKING THING THAT I CAN TELL.  But Norma shoulda SHANKED A BITCH when the dean told her they were cutting the discounts out.  SHANK HIM.  With your shank.  Can I get a holla to Miss M?  <— private joke, sorry ’bout that – But she be my right-hand shankin’ sister.

The work day is over and Norma gets home, probably to start supper, because we know Arthur is lamesauce material and I’m sure, doesn’t cook.  At 5 p.m. Arlington Steward is at their door, just as the note read, and Norma answers the door, to see that Mr. Steward is all disfigured because he was in a fire (ish) situation (pay attention, I mentioned that up above).  Don’t play with matches, kids.  That was the message I took from it.  Or watch movies titled THE BOX.

Norma, invites the stranger into her home, probably ’cause it’s 1976, and like I said, there were no stabby home invader types back then (and they didn’t ring doorbells and be all pleasant).  The dude wants to know if Norma and/or her whackjob-I-failed-NASA’s-psych-test husband pushed the button?  No, they hadn’t.  And they now have a decision to make – they can press the button and get one million dollars BUT someone, somewhere in the big bad world will die.  Norma gets a look of shock on her face.  Truthfully, I wanted to punch her in the neck, but I had to chant, IT’S JUST A MOVIE, IT’S JUST A MOVIE, IT’S JUST A MOVIE… to calm myself.  Mr. Steward informs Norma that she and Arthur have 24 hours to make a decision.  He hands her a hundred dollar bill just for a lap dance allowing him in their home and she can keep it whether they press the button or not.  Wow, a whole hundred bucks.  Right, though, it’s 1976.  That’s a lot of clams for then.

Arthur arrives home and Norma tells him all about Mr. Steward and the decision they must make.  But they get all curious and shit, and check out the box and Norma gets slap happy and hits the button.  Was it on purpose?  WHO FUCKING CARES.  IT’S SO DUMB.  I mean, yeah, this movie is so worth the $12.50 I PULLED OUT OF MY ASS.  Zombieland was way better.  Much more action happening.  Things being pumped and shit, like guns and stuff.  Again, I digress…

Creepy dude – and not because his face is burned, but just because HE’S CREEPY – comes back and hands them the briefcase with the million dollars and sort of eludes to the fact that the person to die?  Will be one of them.  OMG, I CAN BARELY STAND THE INTENSE DRAMA.  I should have taken medication before watching this.   A LOT OF MEDICATION.  Arthur, still trying to NOT be lamedouchey, tries to give back the dough, but Arlington ignores him and drives off in the car that I have no earthly idea what kind it is and leaves Norma and Arthur sort of shitting their pants.  Oops, we made a mistake.  TOO BAD, FUCKERS.

You find out who dies – well, maybe it’s related and maybe it’s just random shit, because if you like movies with random shit happening, THIS IS THE MOVIE FOR YOU.

This is the part of the movie where I STABBED MYSELF FOR BEING AN ARTARD FOR PAYING TO SEE THIS MOVIE.  There is a wedding rehearsal dinner, presents, a box that looks similar to the one left for Norma and Arthur, police get involved, Norma’s family get involved, a waiter whose nose starts bleeding (yeah, ’cause WE CARE AND THAT’S IMPORTANT IN THE WHOLE SCHEME OF THE FILM), snow, a babysitter named Dana, whose nose also bleeds, whose real name is Sara, who goes into a motel room and sees photos of Norma, Arthur and Walter… need I go on?  You see where this is going, right?  No?  Let me explain… IT TURNS INTO A BIG FUCKING, CONFUSING, SHITTY MESS.  It’s so confusing, you will need a map to find your brain because it STABBED ITSELF IN ALL OF THE CONFUSION.

Arthur falls through the ceiling – along with eleventy-million gallons of water – of their bedroom and that is the point, exactly the point, WHERE I SHOT MYSELF IN THE FACE.  HARD.

There are “gateways,” and other MORE RANDOM SHIT THAT WILL ANNOY THE EVER LIVING FUCK OUT OF YOU and then you will betch slap the FUCKING DUMB out of the person sitting next to you – whether you know them or not, because you need to unleash your anguish at paying money for this donkey shit.

I won’t tell you who kicks the bucket, or who goes temporarily (or not) blind and deaf, because I know you are DYING to see this flick.  Oh, I’m sure there’s a “deep” message somewhere in the movie, something like DON’T MARRY A MAN WHO WOULD MAKE YOU GET UP AT 5 A.M. TO ANSWER THE DOOR BECAUSE HE FAILED HIS NASA PSYCH TEST, or don’t push buttons.  Yes, as deep as that.  Deep like, major deep.  Deep like cow shit.

In closing, if you like your insides turning to ANGRY, and you love spending your money on confusing garbage, then The Box is for you.  Bring a knife (or shanking scissors) and baggies.  You WILL be cutting the people around you.  Just because.

Posted by Sassy @ 2:08 pmJust Stuff.,Movies That Suck,Nonsense6 comments  

October 4, 2009

We don’t care about your bodily functions.


A friend of mine recently became a divorced, single mom.  She’s back in the dating game and is really having a hard time finding, well, a guy who isn’t a total pig.  Sure, she expects some piggish behavior.  I mean, hello?  But come on, have some manners… (no offense to men, I like men, a lot, and no this is not about any men I know either IRL or Online, so don’t panic you’re all cool and nice and polite).  But honestly, when you have absolutely zero redeeming qualities, as some of the whackjobs my friend has dated lately?  God.  Might as well punch yourself in the nutsack and call it a day.  Just sayin’.  And some of the men my friend has described to me?  Oh, dear Lord.

I decided I’d help my friend by making a list of things she can show her prospective dates.  So maybe they can get a clue and have a second date with her or any other person they might be interested in.  Perhaps, even get laid at some point.  Or at the very least not get slapped or punched in the neck.  I told her to print this off and send it to them before their date.  Sure, that might be slightly difficult to do, but hey, its worth a try.

Some basic rules to possibly snag a second date and/or even get laid:

1. Try not to be a douche.  Simple, it really is.  Don’t talk about your ex (or if you’re still married, um, fuck off and why are you on a date?).  Don’t tell your date that you think the waitress is “bangable,” and then proceed to wink (last guy she went on a date with, totally did this).  If you’d like to screw the waitress, do it on your own time, not on our date.  See?  Simple.  But know, if you bang the bangable waitress, there will be no second date with me.  Take note.

2. Pay for some of the shit.  Please.  If you make me take out my wallet every single time, yeah, there will be no second date and sure as hell no sex.  No, and not even a handjob.  Get lost.

3. Picking.  Don’t do it.  If you must retrieve something out of somewhere, leave the room, table, dance floor, what the hell ever, just don’t show me.  Don’t tell me about it either.  Don’t care.

4. If you excuse yourself from our date to use the bathroom, don’t come back and tell me about it.  Yeah, don’t want to hear about it.  At. all.  Don’t care what you did, how big it was, how long it took, if it resembled an old classmate, Don’t care.  See # 3.  DON’T CARE.  And you’d better wash your fucking hands.

5. Avoid scratching your balls.  Sure, all guys apparently do that, but on our first date OR EVER, resist the urge.  A slight discreet adjustment, fine, but all out finger-digging scratching?  Um, yeah, not attractive.  And if you then think that I’ll be laying a finger/hand/face on those balls you’ve been rubbing through your pants all night?  Not frigging likely.  Take care of the major rash/itch on your own time.  Is that asking too much?  Or if you’re scratching/digging because your balls are sweaty?  Yeah, read on to # 6.

6. Come groomed.  Honestly, do you own a mirror?  If you have nose hair longer than your pit hair, trim it.  It’s easy.  There’s even nose hair trimmer thingies!  For realz.  Get one. 

Brush your fangs.  If you’ve been eating garlic and pizza and drinking beer for the past week, yeah, you need to sterilize your cakehole (love the word cakehole by the way).  If I can name what you’ve eaten in the last 48 hours by the smell of your breath, I’ll vomit in your shoes.  That’s a promise.  Not even kidding.

Do not smell like BO.  It’s 2009.  No one should smell like sweat and/or shit.  Seriously.  No excuse for it.

7. Don’t brag about your money (’cause dude, if you’ve made me pay for everything thus far, I’ll know you’re a) a lying sack of shit or b) a douche or 3) a lying sack of douchebaggery-asswipe-ish-ness.  Yeah, don’t care what you make – at least not on our first date.  Total turn off.  Also money related?  Telling me you forgot your wallet… lame.  See # 2.  Yeah, my friend’s recent date pulled this stunt.  And then never paid her back or called her again.  Classy.

8. I don’t want to know how many chicks you’ve bagged or how many names you have in your little black book.  Take that book out and I’ll cut you.  I’ll just assume you’ve been laid before and know that I have and we’re good.  Do not need to compare notes.  Don’t care what you did with Sally, Darla, or Brenda or how Kathy could “take it all.” <–Yeah, that might impress your guy friends, but your current date?  Not so fucking much.  However, on the note of sex, if we’re going to have it, I’d like to know if you anything that I may not want.  Actually, I don’t fucking want it, so fess up.  That shit you need to disclose.  Not on the first date, of course, but also don’t wait until we’re in the “moment” to drop a bombshell.  See # 1.

9. Yeah, burping the alphabet, while does require effort, is not sexy.  If we were 10, maybe it would be fun and/or funny.  However, if we’re over 12, then it’s not.  And I’m pretty sure we are over 12.  And saying things like, “You’d better stand 10 feet from me, wheeeeewwwww weeeeeeeee, those nachos are doing a number on me,” is not going to make me want to jump your bones later.  Keep that shit (uh, no pun) to yourself.  Which brings me to # 1o.

10. I don’t care about your bodily functions.  At all.  Not even a little bit.  I don’t care to know what you do in the bathroom… yes, I have an idea, but I prefer to keep that stuff “fuzzily” in my brain.  Please never discuss any of it with me.  Not on our first date, second or 10 years into the marriage.  I will never care about what you do once you close the bathroom door.  See # 3, 4, and 9. 

My friend’s date with “Tom” sort of went to the bathroom talk, as in, “Tom” telling her about his explosive diarrhea that he experienced the day before and how his “bottom” (Yes, because saying “bottom” instead of “ass” makes it less disgusting) was still “raw.”  Needless to say she didn’t sleep with him and she was going to up until that point because she thought he was hot and she hadn’t had it in a while.  So, to “Tom,” dude, you could have gotten laid had you not disclosed the information about your shitty, raw ass.  *sad face*

Honestly, it’s easy to get a girl to go out with you a second time.  Know what the secret is?  Bring out your feminine side… act like a guy but with some sensitivity (I know, what fantasy world am I living in?).  Or, hell, just don’t burp, fart, tell me about the dump you took, or pick your nose, and we’ll be good to go.

Hope this helps, “T” honey.  I love ya, but I’m glad it’s not me in the dating pool.

Posted by Sassy @ 7:09 pmI want to Punch You in the Neck,Just Stuff.,Nonsense30 comments  

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