Dewd Night at The Mewvies

I remember the first time I saw Reservoir Dogs.  And The Boondock Saints.  And Fist of the The North Star.  And Perry Farrell’s “The Gift”.  And all those Grateful Dead VHS tapes.  It’s a little fuzzy as to exactly who I was with at the time I saw each of these cinematic masterpieces for the first time, but I can say for sure that I was in the company of a dewd when each of these viewings occurred.

How do I know that?  Because when you are a young woman traversing the stinky waters of dating dewdz, you are routinely subjected to the worst things that ever happened in cinema.  One of the benefits of being a “mature” woman, is that if anyone were to say, “Hey, let’s watch this dewd movie!” I would say no and then speed away in my car to the airport and leave the country immediately because I am not sitting through that shit anymore.

I remember the first dewd who made me sit through Reservoir Dogs (there were many, it was the 90s), and I asked if we could turn it off because the violence was so horrible that I literally thought I was going to throw up.  He told me I was wrong.  About my own feelings.  We finished the movie.  He spent the ensuing hours, days, and weeks telling me that this was the best movie he’d ever seen.  I didn’t argue.  If he thought it was the best movie he’d ever seen, what the hell did I care?

But that wasn’t enough.  He wanted me to admit that it was the best movie I’d ever seen.  He kept explaining various points over and over again, as if I “misunderstood” the movie, because my not understanding the movie was the only possible way he could explain the fact that I did not agree with his expert assessment of the film.  This is a common dewd behavior, by the way.  (All of the ladies reading this are nodding their heads right now.)  You must agree with dewdz at all times, or be accused of not “understanding” what they’re saying.  I don’t know how many times in my young life I uttered the words, “I understand what you are saying completely, I just happen to disagree with you.”  Saying that never worked, by the way.

If you’re a dewd reading this right now, guaranteed you’re thinking, “What’s wrong with Reservoir Dogs?  I love that movie!”  Exactly.  Dewdz love this movie.  I have yet to meet one woman who enjoys it.  Because it’s gross.

Regardless, over the years I sat through Reservoir Dogs again and again at the insistence of various dewdz, even after I said I didn’t like it, even after I openly said that I hated it, because they just could not believe that I didn’t like something that they themselves liked so much.  “Watch it with me, I’ll explain it to you!”  Thanks.  Because obviously I am an idiot who does not understand a basic-ass Tarantino movie.  They’re about as hard to follow as an episode of The Love Boat.  Maybe, juuust maybe, I don’t like the movie.

And don’t even get me started on The Boondock Saints, or as I prefer to call it, “Pasty Dewdz Ejaculating Bullets All Over Each Other In The Gun-Boner Parade”.  What a great time to be heavily-armed, angry young white men seeking “justice” by blowing off the heads of as many people as possible!  Who would have known it would only get better in the following years for heavily-armed, angry young white men seeking “justice” by blowing off the heads of as many people as possible?

And I know how much most women really like the one scene in particular where the “good guy” is antagonizing his new gay coworker who has a tattoo that says “Untouched by Man” by calling her a big, fat, angry lesbian, making a “joke” to her about feminists blowing him, and when she responds by rightfully kicking his ass, he punches her right in the face, knocks her out cold, and then delivers a one-liner about how she’ll be “needing to change her tattoo”.  For laughs!  Get it?  It’s funny that she’s a lesbian and he punches her in the face!  IT’S COMEDY.  Because, really, what could be funnier than punching one of those “man-hating lesbians” right in the face?!  Those lesbians have been having a pretty good run of the world for long enough, it’s time for straight white dewdz to finally give them their comeuppance!

Man, if you don’t like that, it’s because political correctness is ruining our country.

And in case that wasn’t enough gay-bashing for you, Willem DaFoe, who plays a gay man in the movie, then calls his gay lover a gay slur for what he perceives to be gay behavior.  For laughs!  I mean, don’t get me wrong, this is a movie that needs some comic relief after all the blood spattering everywhere as people get riddled with bullets, so why not get it at the expense of “the gays”?  OH MY GOD I HATE THIS MOVIE SO MUCH.

As far as the others, unless a woman specifically says, “I like anime, seriously!”, assume she doesn’t want to watch Fist of The North Star.  Same with The Grateful Dead videos.  Unless a woman signs an affidavit stating that she would enjoy watching hours of VHS tapes of live Grateful Dead performances, assume she doesn’t like it.  And unless she is a film student with a 1.2 GPA who also dabbles in horse tranquilizers, assume she will not enjoy Perry Farrell’s “The Gift”, because while junkies are capable of making some pretty decent music, they really tend to miss the mark in the film-making department, what with all the “boring”.

Honorable Dewd Movie Mentions go to:

In the category of “Nerd Shit”:  Brazil, Cherry 2000, Earth Girls Are Easy

In the category of “Tim Roth”:  Four Rooms (or anything with Tim Roth in it for that matter).  What is it with dewdz and Tim Roth?  They LOVE him.  I don’t get it.

In the category of “This Filmmaker Hates Women”:  Sin City (yay – women are either domestic abuse victims, vulnerable kids who turn into hot strippers you eventually bang, or prostitutes who get hit in the mouth – but like it!).

In the category of 1970s White Dewd Wankery:  All Clint Eastwood movies, all Steve McQueen movies, all Charles Bronson movies, and A Clockwork Orange (because that rape scene is HILARIOUS, right?).

Don’t make girls watch these movies unless they, for some reason, are the ones who bring it up first.  Just don’t do it.  And even if they bring it up first, check in on them every five minutes to make sure they haven’t succumbed to a brain hemorrhage, because they are clearly not of sound mind.  If you are a woman being faced with watching one of these movies, just leave.  Walk away and don’t look back.  Run, if need be.

Nobody’s saying anyone has to go watch Steel Magnolias, but how about meeting in the middle?  Frost/Nixon?  Most Denzel Washington movies?  Oceans 11?  Guardians of The Galaxy?  The Constant Gardener?  So I Married An Ax Murderer?

Those Jason Bourne movies are actually kinda okay, despite Matt Damon being the human equivalent of shaved balls, in that while he’s not intrinsically awful as a general concept, you just keep looking at him and going, “Why?”

Raiders of The Lost Ark? National Treasure?  Tomb Raider?

You know what?  Forget it.  Either find someone who has good taste in movies, or just get separate televisions.

I Can’t Eat That

We were driving home from dinner one night last year, and I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack.  Not one of those “OMG I was having a heart attack because of a cute outfit someone had on”.  A “heart attack” heart attack.  I knew it definitely wasn’t a panic attack, because ohhhh man, do I know exactly what those fuckers feel like.  This felt like someone had hit me in the sternum with a sledgehammer and was holding it there for safe-keeping.

As we were driving, I silently contemplated at what point I should ask Bobby to turn around and take me to the emergency room.  I started thinking about all the trite, facing-your-mortality stuff, and reflected back on my life.  A lone tear started to form in the corner of my eye.  My god, I wished I had spent more time watching television.  I looked to the moon, its pearly glow all glowing it up and stuff, as the theme from Three’s Company played through my mind.

Down at our rendezvous.

Three’s company, too.

You’re probably thinking I was an idiot for not just asking him to take me to the emergency room to get checked out “just in case”, but I grew up poor with no insurance and unless you think you are literally, actually, dying and have blood spurting uncontrollably out of your ribcage, you do not go to the emergency room under any circumstances.  Even now that I have insurance, good insurance, that seed is still firmly planted.

I have gone to bed with a broken foot before because I have been so thoroughly trained to not go to the emergency room.  When I was hit by a car when I was 15 and broke half my body, I refused to let anyone call an ambulance and just had my idiot friends load me into their backseat and take me home to my mother instead (who then sped me to the emergency room) because you simply do not go to the emergency room.

Bobby and I got home from dinner and I laid down, and the feeling eventually subsided after a couple of hours.  Man, what was all that about?

Oh, what was that all about?  I’ll tell you exactly what that was about.  I had eaten raw green pepper at dinner.  Old person rookie mistake!  I might as well have just chugged gun powder, or maybe a handful of thumb-tacks.  Raw green pepper.  Why not just crack my chest open and let toddlers play mini-golf inside my stomach lining?

One of the loud, fun things that happens as you age, is you start developing an ever-growing list of things you can no longer eat.  I remember when I was a kid and my grandmother would take us to a restaurant and she would have a huge list of things she couldn’t eat because they didn’t “agree” with her, and I had absolutely no idea what the hell that meant.  I thought she was maybe just super picky, or had too much Jesus in her life to make room for onions.  I’ll tell you this much, though, you’ll know exactly what that shit means by the time you hit 40.

The first time you drink a glass of orange juice and then take a nap and wake up with your thorax in flames is usually a pretty good indicator that you’ve “arrived”.

Eat two slices of French bread and wait for the “So when is your baby due?” questions to start rolling in, followed by people patting your distended belly and saying, “You’re pretty old to be pregnant, huh?  What’s the name of your fertility specialist?”.

Drink a lot of cheap vodka and tell me how that works out for you and your shredded colon the next day.  You will wish you had never been born an alcoholic.

(Green peppers have a special kind of double-fold torturous effect due to two things called Solanine and Flavin.  I will not go further into that, because who gives a shit.)

So anyway, I can’t eat green peppers anymore because they don’t “agree” with me.  I also can’t drink well liquor anymore.  Cheap beer – nope.  I also can’t sleep on my left side or I will wake up clutching my chest in the middle of the night.  Orange juice – out.  Tumbleweed onions – maybe.  Also, bread is public enemy #1 – for any number of reasons, though.

To be fair, I also can’t pull off all the midriff-shirts I buy at Forever 21, but I’ve given up on caring about that in favor of living under the delusion that I can still totally pull it off, but we’ll talk more about that later in the week.

Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw Yourself?

One of the benefits of being a Dusty Old Crusty (D.O.C. y’aaaaaall!), is finally being able to hold my liquor.  As a matter of fact, learning how to drink without humiliating myself is probably the biggest accomplishment I have to-date.  Granted, you can still always count on me to challenge people to a push-up contest after three cocktails, but the up-side of that is a stronger upper body, and who doesn’t want that?  It’s about fitness.

When I was 15, I had the moony-eyed, pathetic crush of all crushes.  My own personal Jordan Catalano.  One night when we were hanging out at a house party, I drank somewhere in the area of 3-4 beers.  When I felt that hurling was imminent, I got up from the couch and walked towards the bathroom, only to find a line of people waiting to get in.

I stood in the hallway, drunk and swaying, and totally threw up.

Except that right when this started to happen, my crush just so happened to walk up and start talking to me, so instead of throwing up, I threw…in?

I stood there and held the puke inside my mouth so that he wouldn’t know that I was throwing up inside my own mouth.

He kept talking, I kept nodding and smiling, holding a mouth full of vomit.  He eventually made me laugh, the hurl came streaming out of my nose like a dual-sided volcano, he yelled “Gross!!!” and ran away from me.

To summarize, Jordan Catalano yelled “Gross!!!” at me.  And then ran away.  Like any vomiting out of your nose story, it’s a pretty good one.  /smug

You can repeat this story, changing a few of the details, and this would describe my first 10 years of drinking.

Making out with a Dockers-wearing P.E. coach with a Caesar haircut I had just met at a wedding before excusing myself to throw up for the next 8 hours in a crushed velvet babydoll dress was probably the low point (hello 1995!).  On a related note, it is nearly impossible to get vomit out of crushed velvet.  The only thing that’s worse is trying to get vomit out of faux fur, but thankfully the faux fur trend didn’t come along for a few more years, so I had time to plan ahead.  If you vomit on something with sequins, just throw it out.

I just could never figure out my limit, and then even if I did, I had to figure it out again depending on how empty my stomach was and what kind of alcoholic beverage was being served.  Beer 3, wine 2, mixed drink 2, Zima 3 and subtract one from each if it’s on an empty stomach.

So!  Young lushes!  Here’s what you need to do:

Eat.  Something.  I don’t just mean eat a granola bar and then head out to an all-night bachelorette party.  If I know I’m going to be engaging in a high-level drinking event, I eat like a goddamned machine before I go.  Pack it in like a lumberjack hamster.  Think eggs, hashbrowns, sausage, biscuits and gravy.  Soooo much gravy.  Then eat mini-muffins on the entire drive there.  Bacon double cheeseburger.  Do it up.

Second, resist the urge to “pre-game” at somebody’s house.  If you’re picking up your friend on the way out for the night, and she says, “Let’s do a couple shots before we go!”, just say no.  If she persists, tell her she reminds you of an 2004-era Lindsay Lohan “in a bad way” and that should nip it in the bud.

If the effects of alcohol tend to sneak up on you like they do on me, alternate alcoholic drinks with a glass of club soda.  Most bars won’t even charge you for it, it has zero calories, and this method has saved my ass on numerous occasions.  It will also help to keep you from feeling like you got stomped on by a donkey the next day.  Hydration, people!  It’s a cure-all.  You will never wake up the day after you drank 3 gin and tonics and 3 club sodas and wish you had just had 6 gin and tonics instead.  Trust me.

Lastly, there’s the ol’ Coyote Ugly trick, where if someone surprises you by buying you a shot, you pretend to do it, and then clandestinely spit it out into an empty beer bottle.  This is what I have done with literally every shot of Jagermeister anyone has ever bought me, not because I was afraid of getting too drunk, but because Jagermeister is so gross.

Related – I imagine that when Bridget Moynihan was in that Coyote Ugly movie she thought it was a pretty low point in her life, but then years later she married Tom Brady, got impregnated by Tom Brady, and then dumped by Tom Brady for Gisele Bundchen – while still pregnant – yet still has to raise his icky vanilla-demon spawn.

Related – Tom Brady is the literal worst.  The WORST. He is the Tom Paris of football.

And come to think of it, when Bridget Moynihan was in Sex and The City, she married Mr. Big (who had her walk down the aisle to a saxophone solo of “When a Man Loves a Woman”), and then got dumped by Mr. Big for Carrie Bradshaw, who was like 10 years older than her and dressed like a literal clown.

I wonder if that’s the way you test someone’s personal limits and whether you’ll be able to use them as a doormat?  You just say to your soon-to-be bride, “I think you should walk down the aisle to a non-ironic saxophone solo of “When a Man Loves a Woman”.  If she says, “Uhh, okay?” then BINGO.  This woman will let you steamroll her for the rest of your life, because if she says yes to that shit on her wedding day?  Oh man, she will say yes to anything.

Go ahead and move your teenage mistress into the house, she won’t care.

Tell her she could stand to switch to salads for a while.

Tell her to go out and get a second job so she can pay for liposuction on her saddlebags.

Suggest to her that she buy her pants at Lane Bryant and her bras at the “Limited Too” kids clothing store which by the way some assbag actually suggested to me one time. 

If at any time she offers resistance to your whims, just start playing “When a Man Loves a Woman” on the saxophone and she will become all Pavlovian-catatonic with PTSD, remember where she stands in the hierarchy of your relationship, and start folding your laundry the right way for a change.  Chicks!

I need a drink.  Happy Friday!