Friday, August 12, 2011

Yes, Really with Wilde.Dash #21: Meatballs (1979)

The usual caveat: Believe it or not, for someone totally obsessed with movies, I do a lot of selective editing, snubbing, and ignoring. That is to say: there are a whole lot of well-known movies I've actually never bothered to watch. I've spent a lot of time hunting down obscurities and not quite as much time seeing the movies you've probably been watching since you were 10 years old. Because of this, in conversation I frequently have this interaction. Me: "I've never actually seen that movie" You: "What? I've seen a movie you haven't?" Me: "Yes" You: "How have you not seen that movie?" Me: "I never wanted to" You: "Really?" Me: "Yes, really." Thus: Yes, Really with Wilde.Dash a feature in which I fill in my pop culture education, watch all the boring basics, and let you know whether or not I decided they were worth my time.


Dear Mom & Dad,

It's raining, so I figured I'd write you to tell you personally that you totally wasted your money sending me to this lame summer camp.  Man, this camp blows chunks.  Was the point of this to cure me of my self-esteem issues? Because, newsflash: I totally don’t have any.  Pat yourselves on the backs, great success, whatever whatever because hey, guess what, compared to all these assholes I’m amazing.  The kids here are real immature punks with no personalities.  I know I’m a mopey son of a bitch, but compared to these kids I’ve got at least a little bit of what dad calls “character.”  I hate you for sending me here, cuz you really don’t get that I’m too old for summer camp.  I’m mature, man.  No one should have to pay to send me here, they should pay me for being here because I’m like way more together than the counselors, who are cool but also weird.  
I hang out with this one guy Tripper, who is like really old, maybe 30, but I like him better than the kids cuz at even though he’s a spaz he lets me play poker instead of sit around talking ghost stories and made up girl stuff with those jerk offs in my cabin.  What kind of kid hangs out with adults at summer camp?  This kid.  All I have to do is act sad and they’re all like, hey kid, come play for the majors, we got beer, no curfews, and early morning jogging.  I’m all about early morning jogging.  I can run circles around these ass wipes.  Tripper ain’t a bad guy, but he’s really out of shape in his old age.  I wear jogging shorts way better.  You may not have noticed, but I’m totally on the verge of becoming a man.  I don’t want to brag, but I’ve found a few hairs where there weren’t any before, so I’m pretty much so ready for college it’s not even funny.  No more of this lame arts and crafts stuff.  I don’t need this shit.  What am I supposed to do with a lanyard?  Real men don’t wear lanyards.  I bet they don’t even do arts and crafts at Camp Mohawk.  Or, if they do do arts and crafts at Camp Mohawk they go out and hunt big game and kill like a panther or something and then make a really awesome rug for their bachelor pads.  That’s what real men do.  Not lanyards. You probably knew that dad, so I don’t know why you pretend otherwise.  I’m not a kid anymore.  I don’t need to play sleepover with all of these babies.  I don’t need to wake up in a cabin that smells like piss and car air fresheners and crushed twinkie.  Even this dork counselor spaz has more game than those babies, and his glasses are so thick that they could probably be like Archimedes’ death ray if you shot the sun through them.  
Yeah, that’s an Archimedes reference, because when I’m not jogging, drinking beer, learning to make stubborn advances at chicks who say no until they say yes, and gambling, I’m reading books about stuff that these punks have never heard about.  Man, I’m going to kill in college.  That’s when I’m going to hit my prime, man.  It’s going to be phenomenal.  Those chicks will love this whole brooding thing I’m cultivating.  Yeah, I said it, cultivating.  You didn’t even know I knew that word, did you mom?  Hell, maybe I won’t even go to college.  I don’t need it.  Instead I’ll just move into a cabin like Tripper and concentrate on irking chicks until they surrender to me.  Summers will be fresh,  I’m going to get so much college girl ass it’s not even funny.




Love you and miss you.  See you in two weeks.  Please send candy bars (but no Milky Ways), my arrowhead collection, my green pair of adidas shorts, and some extra tube socks?

Sincerely,
Rudy, esq.   

PS: Even though this is bullshit, if you don't send me back here next year I'll probably hate you forever.







2 comments:

  1. This is really a great feature idea. I always have the very same conversation whenever these 'classics' are discussed. Looking at some of the previous titles though, I really applaud your efforts, because I neither have the patience nor the creativity to go through with it myself.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks, it can really be a pain in the ass, but these are generally the entries I look back upon fondly. Good to hear someone else is enjoying them too.

    ReplyDelete

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