A completely objective review of a movie my friend did

I’ve never been asked to give my opinion on a movie. Sure, I’ve given it many times without anyone involved in the film requesting it (The Hangover is awful, America, and you should accept it), but never has someone asked me to do it. I’m nervous. I don’t know how to approach it.

I should also mention it’s not a full-length movie. It’s a short film. But it’s awesome. It’s like the Spud Webb of films. If it got into a slam-dunk contest with The Hangover, it would do a double-reverse, 360 tomahawk jam then do the throat-slitting motion at The Hangover because The Hangover is just the same joke over and over again for 2 hours plus a guy with a beard who says weird stuff.

But enough about The Hangover. My friend’s movie is called If Walls Could Talk. After watching this film and knowing how it ends, it’s probably best the walls can’t talk, because they would give away the ending, and I’m pretty sure my friend wouldn’t want that. It would ruin the movie. The ending is good.

I guess I should tell you my friend’s name. It’s Steven Hoffner. He writes and stars in it. He may direct it too. I’m not sure. The video is password protected and I can’t remember what it is so I can’t check. He’s Canadian, so the password might be something weird like toonie or a regular English word with a “u” dropped in a weird spot, like mouvie. Nope, not that. Oh well. Let’s just say he’s the key grip.

There’s also a lady in the movie. Both are Canadian, as you can tell by the scene where they talk about going ootside in aboot five minutes to find oot aboot the horn tootings. No I’m just kidding. There’s no horn. But they do have Canadian accents, so it’s a foreign film. You should watch it when it goes public so you can sound cool when you tell your friends you saw this excellent short film that was made in another country.

Well, that’s all I have to say about this movie. It’s actually really well done with a solid twisty ending. He’s going to blurb me on his site based on this post. I hope he uses the graph where I call him the key grip. I thought that was funny.

Seriously, The Hangover sucks.

I have a few questions about this dolphin movie coming out

As a cold, emotionless robot of a man, sappy movies ricochet off me like bullets off an armored car. When Bruce Willis decides to die to save his daughter, his planet, at the end of Armageddon, I most definitely thought it was sad. But that was only because there was a perfectly good Ben Affleck there that we could have sacrificed. If you tell me your eyes welled up a little when you realized Ben was going to live, I’m OK with that. Otherwise, I laugh at your tears.

My programming does have an empathy chip that that sends signals to my brain that allow me to understand why another human being would get sad about that ending. After all, it is a human being dying up on the big screen. I can see where the person sitting next to me in the theater is coming from.

However, my chip lacks the ability to make me emotionally invested as to whether a dolphin lives or dies in a movie. It definitely won’t prevent me from laughing at you if you get weepy. So I’m sure when the makers of  Dolphin Tale, a PG-rated movie about a dolphin named Winter who must overcome the loss of her tail, created the TV ads for the movie, they weren’t trying to appeal to me. Well, if they were trying to appeal to the side of me that becomes filled with questions that lack answers, they hit the nail on the head.

Katy Perry and Firework: An in-depth study of the song

I have a really varied taste in music. It’s nothing great. I like what I like. I never apologize for it, but I know that if anyone ever found my iPod, they would think it belonged to a teen-age girl from New Jersey who likes a lot of music that can be found in episodes of Scrubs. I have no idea what’s cool these days, and I had no idea what was cool when these days were my days. I like what I like. If you found my iPod, you also might throw it away.

As diverse as my musical taste may be, pop and dance was never my thing. It still isn’t. Yet for some reason, one that will be debated by scientists until the world is eventually completely under water, I can’t get enough of Katy Perry’s “Firework.” It’s a sickness. The first step toward a cure is admitting you have a problem, but I’ve yet to find a 12-step program for Firework.

After about 50 listens of Firework, I’m convinced it is the worst written song since Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic.”

Firework just makes no sense. It’s as if it is written by someone who just learned English a year ago in night school. If you read the lyrics, it’s as if the song was written in Italian, dropped into Google Translator, then placed in front of Katy Perry to sing. It’s atrocious. It’s an atrocious atrocity of atrociousness.

To help me deal with this, I have decided to analyze the lyrics in the hopes of better understanding them. Chances are, this is not going to work.

On Arian Foster, and the hatred of fantasy football people

I’ve taken part in some sort of fantasy football league since I was 12. The first league I joined was through the mail. I found it in an ad in the back of a magazine and it cost about $75 and wasn’t the type of fantasy football we know today.

On a sheet of paper, a list of about 300 players was divided into 20 categories with 15 players each. Players were listed by position (even punters), and it was up to me to rank the players from 1-15. After that, I had to rank the categories from 1-20. The people who ran this league would put that information into a computer that would spit out your roster, and that would be your team for the week. Looking back now, it was the corniest thing I’ve ever done. There was no prize money, there were no friends in the league, and you couldn’t “draft” players.

Yet I’ve been hooked ever since.

Arian Foster hates me for it.

Thoughts before I die during surgery tomorrow

This might surprise you, but I’m not a big fan of having surgery. I know most people are, but going to a hospital really early, getting naked, putting on a gown, laying in a bed, being stuck with a needle, going to sleep, having a person slice open my body and waking up in a pain just isn’t my thing. I’m strange in that way.

But Thursday morning, a man will do just that. He will slice open my left arm, cut my triceps, peel it back, scrape away scar tissue that’s been sitting in there for two years and making my life moderately miserable, file down my bone, drill a hole in the bone to promote bleeding and good scar tissue, whatever the hell that is, re-attach my triceps with the aid of a screw, then make me spend a month in a sling and 6-8 weeks rehabbing the elbow area.

My doctor calls all this, “a simple procedure.” I call him an, “a-hole.”