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Do night terrors mean anything to you?

Issue Date: Tuesday, Feb. 01, 2005

scritch
scritch… scritch… scritchscritch

What? Huh? What was that noise? Nothin? Oh. Oh-kay.

scritch
rrrrrrrrrrrEEEEeeeeeeeee

Huuh!? Hey.
[stands up – looks around]
What the fuck man?

scritch

No, really, this shit ain’t funny any more.

whiiirrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

scritch

*the chiming of a cat bell begins and runs into a constant atonal sound*

[The fuzzy image of a malnourished Asian boy is seen in the background, his gaping, toothless, maw the deepest black you have ever seen… it widens and widens and widens…]

mmmrrrrooooooooOOWWW!

Ugh.
*Shudder*
I saw The Grudge about three weeks ago and I am still scared shitless by my own shadow.

Mister and I went out for date night and he knew I wanted to see The Grudge, and he likes horror films as well, so we made plans. It was showing at the dollar theater, which is cool, pretty close to the house and has great popcorn… so we were set.

Mister and I got our tickets, our sodas and found our seats. We were only two of about 15 or 20 people in the theater. I noticed that there were people of all ages there. Another couple on a date. A family with their 4-year-old son. (!) A lady with her two kids, probably the ages of 10 and 13. And a young couple with a baby in a blanket… probably no older than one.

These people were stupid.

Yes, I am able to criticize these people freely without guilt, cast the first stone, if you will, without knowing them.

They brought babies to a horror movie. A fucking movie that made me, a 32 year old woman scream and almost pee her pants within the first 10 minutes of the film.

What the hell do you think it is going to do to the sleep patterns of a 4 year old? Huh? Huh? You vapid, stupid woman… Do night terrors mean anything to you?

End Rant::

And yes, I did scream… out loud. Loud enough to elicit this response from Mister, “Baby? Do you want to leave?” Me and my stupid ass should have said, “Yes, please, protect me from the evil ways of this PG-13 movie. I am a big titty-baby. I can not hang.”

I normally love the horror genre. I do. Really.

Stop laughing. Shut up.

Could you imagine my excitement when the title credits were rolling and I saw “… Sam Raimi” flash across the screen? For the love of all that is Bruce Campbell and the Evil Dead trilogy! Woo Hoo!

And yet.

I still was about to tinkle in my britches when Yoko got the kibosh put on her plans for living in the first few minutes of that damn movie when she so wisely went to check on what that scratching noise was coming from the attic. S-M-R-T… see? Smart.

Stupid movie.

Yet, I still love Sam Raimi. Could you imagine what it would be like to work for him? I just searched IMDB.com on Sam Raimi’s projects and there is a Grudge 2 coming out. Sorta looks like Grease 2 by the title alone… BUT IT’s NOT!

Anyway, moving along.

Could you imagine working for Mr. Raimi? Going home totally terrorized every day or just getting completely desensitized to the most insane clown shit imaginable?

Sort of like having Clive Barker* (of the Hellraiser fame) read you bedtime stories when you were little.

kids: Uncle Clive! Uncle Clive!! Read us a bedtime story will you???
Clive: Ok, ok, … hmmm, oh, here’s a good one…. “So, Uncle Frank took over Kristy’s dad’s body because her mom was really having an affair with him and then he tried to get with Kristy and said ‘Come to Daddy’ and she got all freaked out and Frank actually sold his soul to the devil so the devil’s henchmen came and Pinhead said to him [creepy yelling voice] ‘WE’LL TEAR YOUR SOUL APAAAAART!!!!!!’”

The sound of kids shrieking and running to hide in their closets and not come out until they are forty and completely emotionally scarred… Then they can never hold down regular jobs and end up working at Hollywood Video and blackmailing the manager at Weinerschnitzel because they saw him making completely inappropriate overtures towards the pygmy goat at the petting zoo in the local mall.

Poor Uncle Clive still sitting in the living room wondering where those sweet little rug rats went, he was just getting to the juicy part of his bedtime story. He wanted to tell them, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!” He never gets to say that!

Ok… now I have completely lost my point.

Oh, yes.

Now I remember.

That fucking movie was scary as shit.

*Or Clive Cussler talking incessantly about Dirk Diggler or Dirk Pitt or blah blah blah… ok, maybe only dorky fiction reading twits like me think this is funny.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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