Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (55 page)

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10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

By far my favorite genre of all is the teen romantic comedy. I think it’s because these movies speak to something in me. As most of you can probably surmise from my reviews, I am nothing if not a romantic at heart. However, I had the same problem with this movie as I did with all of the other movies like it: the reconciliation of the estranged lovers. This one takes an especially appalling and nauseating twist as the character played by Heath Ledger successfully regains his lost love through the use of a song and dance routine. We all know that in reality the thing normal people do when their girlfriend dumps them is to go out and find a mild-mannered hooker and beat the living shit out of her.

Now I don’t know if it was the recurring nightmares this scene gave me or what, but I decided to try this little maneuver on a girl I had offended. Apparently girls grow upset when you are late for a date because you were playing video games and your excuse is: “Captain Tarpals needed my help defending the peace-loving people of Naboo from the invading droid army.” Even more so when you tell them they have to remit to you a written apology on behalf of Captain Tarpals for their complicity in disrupting the war effort.

So in an attempt to win her back I spontaneously burst into what I thought was a quite fetching song and dance number performed with my usual panache and ribald flair. Unfortunately she gave me a look of revulsion and pity the likes of which I haven’t seen since I told my dad I didn’t want to go play football because Star Trek was on. Her loss.

BLACK HAWK DOWN

Loved this movie. Loved it. Foreigners die in droves in this masterpiece. However, I have a little piece of advice concerning the lingo used in the film.

After viewing the film it is NOT a good idea to refer to the North Africans manning the parking garage in your office building as “skinnies.” This will result in some office-mandated “sensitivity training.” There, some painted whore will listen to your ramblings and tell you that you have “issues with women.” Then she will look really surprised when you threaten to “punch her in the goddamn face.” The court system calls this “assault.” An assault charge makes it hard to find “gainful employment” due to “liability concerns.” Instead, you will spend your days watching movies and “plotting your holy vengeance.”

BROTHERHOOD OF THE WOLF

There are only two times I have grown physically violent after viewing a movie. The first time was when I saw
The Pledge
in theatres. I can’t discuss the specifics of that incident because 1) a red-dimmed tide overtook my vision when I was en route to the projectionist’s booth to smite whatever I could find, and 2) the resulting litigation is still pending. The second time is this goddamn piece of crap—
Brotherhood of the Wolf
.

First of all it’s a French movie. Frankly the fact that I had Netflix send it to me after discovering this fact means I have only myself to blame. I think the French version of the movie title is
Goddamn Piece of Shit
or something similar; I don’t know. I have testosterone in my system, so I can’t speak French.

Let me run down the characters in this masterpiece for you. We have an effete taxidermist who happens to be about a fifth-degree black belt. His traveling companion is a mute Indian who is wandering around France in the 1600s and somehow managed to take enough time out of his busy schedule of drinking firewater and ceding his ancestral property to pick up Judo. Their ally is, what else, a papal whore spy. And I’m not just calling her that; she really was a whore. Seriously, I’m not making any of this up. A goddam taxidermist ninja is your hero in this one. Welcome to France, people.

They spend the next what seems like fourteen hours running around fighting a dog I think. To be honest, I can’t really remember because I hit myself over the head with a sledgehammer immediately after viewing the film in an attempt to induce amnesia.

Picture the scene immediately after this puppy ends: Hate is frothing at the mouth in a blind fury and begins pacing the apartment and talking to himself, incapable of understanding what the hell just happened. I am frantically searching the basement for the heaviest thing I can find to beat myself unconscious with. Hate begins to slam his hand in the door, as that feeling is one far, far superior to what we felt upon watching the movie. I manage to locate the sledgehammer and put myself down. This event, sadly, represents the most physical damage ever done to an American by a French person.