I'm a strange fork. I live on the 360-degree philosophy, whereas most beings live on the regulation 180-degree philosophy. "What the hell are you talking about, you stupid utensil?" one might be heard to say. "Knock off the pseudointellectual gobbledygook and penetrate my damn steak," another might be heard to exclaim.
Well, you unenlightened jezebels, it so happens that it's very simple. You see, I have a strange value system wherein, for instance, something can be so bad, it's good. Most people understand that
The Brady Bunch sucks balls. But I think it's so unflinchingly terrible that it goes 180 degrees to awful and then the OTHER 180 degrees back to greatness. You see? Whereas most people just take note of the 180-degree journey to atrocity and call it a night.
Now, I just watched the most evil and misogynistic movie ever. Really, this thing makes bukkake films look like triumphs of feminism. It was a delightful little gem called
Very Bad Things. Within the first 30 seconds, it became obvious that the screenwriter had some issues with women. Within the first five minutes, I longed for the halcyon days of "issues with women" as the film became unrelentingly hostile to everything good and decent. Within 30 minutes, I was one delighted viewer. Why? Because I had completed my 360-degree journey. You see, while I acknowledge that there is nothing of redeeming value in this film, I became delighted with the mental image of some conscience-free screenwriting monster typing away at his keyboard, panting breathlessly, so unapologetically mean, pummeling the crap out of his detestable characters. This sea of unbridled cruelty became funnier and funnier as horror upon horror unfolded during the rest of the film. I laughed. I'm sorry.
By the way, I hate people now. All of you.
Not everything goes the whole 360 degrees, of course. The film
Night Train to Mundo Fine is just a disgracefully bad movie. There's no spark, no panache, no indefinable something that carries it the extra 180 degrees back to safety. There has to be some element of goofiness, unintentional comedy, over-the-top meanness, something... something that will carry it home. A 127-year-old John Carradine belting out random lyrics written by a homeless idiot does not qualify. That's not a spark, that's just cow feces.
By the way, I recognize that most of this is total nonsense.
Oh, update: I have now watched
Unforgiveable Blackness, a documentary about the first black heavyweight champion of the world, Jack Johnson, who claimed the title in 1908.
So, I only hate white people now. All of you.
Wait, another update: The Kansas City Royals just swept the New York Yankees in a three-game series!
Never mind. All is forgiven. I love everyone.
