December 26, 2011 § Leave a Comment
I’ve always thought Christmas was weirdly sinister, like Norman Rockwell personified, and when I was younger would frequently conflate Christ’s joyous birth with Christmas’ slutty step-sister, Halloween. This might be due to my childhood obsession with Nightmare Before Christmas, or the fact that God is a creepy dick and is much better suited to scaring the shit out of children than rousing goodwill towards men, or whatever it is that’s supposed to happen while you’re doling out the overpriced plastic crap you had to wrassle all those bitches at the Big Lots to get and mindlessly gorging yourself on Safeway brand sugar cookies, just to drown out the bickering of your ungrateful children who neither need nor want anything you gave them yet still end up fighting over who got what. So this year Chris and I decided to embrace the TRUE meaning of Christmas and watch a bunch of horror movies.
We started the weekend strong, with an American Horror Story marathon (see above video for comical Valencia reference). Which was great, really some of the most twisted footage I’ve seen on a network television show (sewn up baby-corpse, anyone?), until the last few episodes when Ryan Murphy aka the show’s producer aka the guy who also does Glee got all traditional family values on us and turned the whole bloodbath into a Hallmark card. This was very disappointing, especially after such a strong start, since he completely eviscerated the narrative stakes — as we come to find out, and contrary to everything we’d seen thus far, all death means is that you get to tenderly reunite with your family (even though they hated you in life), rekindle with your wife for literally no good reason because you’re an asshole, and happily decorate Christmas trees like some sort of unironic Thomas Kincaid painting for all eternity.
We then moved on to We Need to Talk About Kevin, a movie about a school shooting that made me cry, and World’s Greatest Dad, in which Robin Williams discovers his pervert douchebag of a son dead of autoerotic asphyxiation and then makes up a bunch of touching shit to maximize town sympathy. This was depressing, so the next day we got back to our roots and watched all the Child’s Play movies, plus Jack Frost, the mutant killer snowman version (there’s another movie titled “Jack Frost” starring Michael Keaton, but that’s entirely the wrong film). We also decided that one special day –maybe next Christmas!– we’ll have to get our friends together and watch The Room, Troll II and Jack Frost, verily three of the best-worst films every to grace the silver screen for like a weekend.
In conclusion, there’s only 364 shopping days till Christmas! You better hurry up, people are already lining up outside the Big Lots.