July 22, 2009; At The Movies

What I'd look like if I had been put together by the wackos who made The Tracey Fragments

I don't want this to become one of those tedious lame-ass places where film geeks get their rocks off by displaying their erudition to readerships of four (including their mother, cat and a couple of goldfish), but I have to talk about movies. I have no choice.

You see, the Mooks have subscribed to HBO and The Movie Network and so now it's a steady diet of films. Sadly, most of them are those little ones that people who have a brain don't waste their time or money on but might glance at when they're free on TV and there is nothing else to watch in the summer...but they would change the channel fairly quickly. Not the Mooks—they live and breathe for these fucking artsy-fartsy pieces of shit.

Another problem: they seem to have a fetish for this actress named Ellen Page. You may have heard of her, she was in that movie Juno and was nominated for an Oscar for it. I watched it with Frank and he thought it was obscene and immoral 'cause the little whore of the title (Page) had gotten herself knocked up.

Anyhoo...

In the last few days we have watched two Ellen Page movies. The first was called An American Crime and it is somewhat of a crime it was every fucking made. I mean, it was about this kid, see, and she is left behind by her parents who work for the circus and she lives with a neighbour and then first she's tortured and beaten by the neighbour-lady and then by the lady's kids and then by all the kids in the neighbourhood and then she is dead. Not exactly farce, is it?, watching a 13-year-old being beaten and tortured to death (and let's not forget the words, "I am a prostitute and proud of it" carved on her stomach before she was deaded). The thing is, it was a true fucking story! When that kind of crap is trotted across my TV, I think I was better off in the fucking puppy mill!

Then we watched The Tracy Fragments, another one of those great Canadian films which explains why Canadians hate Canadian films and why this is a pipsqueak nation of over-subsidized whiney artistes. The story in this one might have been okay, but the whole thing was done on a variety of split-screens, with images floating about and no single one ever particularly clear. And that was for every single second of the movie. And it was an interminable—and I mean blow-your-fucking-brains-out-then-have-a-friend-shoot-you-in-the-heart-to-make-sure-you're-dead-interminable—80 cocksucking minutes! What the fuck is wrong with these people???!!!! Don't they watch their own movies? Were they all on drugs or were they still trying to see what that wonderful new editing software could do? I mean, shove a stick up my ass and call me a shish-ke-dog!

And you know what????

Today Mook B is out of town and Mook A plans to spend the whole day watching operas he taped from his lovely new channels.

Kill me. Kill me now.