‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the fjord Not a creature was stirring, not even a Nord The vodka was placed by the lake bed with care In hopes that St. Nicholas would soon be there
This is one of my favorite iterations of the classic Christmas poem. I feel like it really captures the three essentials of the season: ice, vodka, and tinsel. Coincidentally, ice, vodka, and tinsel are the main ingredients for a drink I like to whip up at parties called Mrs. Claus’s Tumbler Of Regret. It would be an absolute smash if I was old enough to drink, or I went to parties, or I was invited to parties, or if I knew anyone who threw the sort of parties that I would be invited to. But other than that, the drink’s a hit with everyone who’s tried it.
I would like to point out that he did indeed try his best, he gave 110 percent, and he left it all out there for everyone to see — but we live in the real world where leaving it all out there for everyone to see just gets you put on a list that says you can’t go within 100 yards of a school or Chuck E. Cheese’s.
Having to go door to door telling everyone you’re a pederast doesn’t sound very appealing to me, which is why I never put any effort into anything. It’s the only way to get anywhere in life. Let everyone else get branded as a todger-toucher while you sit back, relax, and reap the rewards of your unwillingness to do anything worthwhile — It’s a lot like being a politician.
Look Joe, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and you mean well, but people in other time zones are trying to get some sleep and they can hear you all the way from Shanghai, so give it a break for a minute. If you don’t, I’m afraid you won’t be hitting it; it will be hitting you. And by it, I mean me, because I’m going to start beating you with a sock full of quarters if you don’t quiet down.
Now I don’t want to be the bad guy Joe, so if you stop now I’ll let you go home to your tub of peanut butter and fluff while I torch your instruments and throw the ashes into the sea where they won’t hurt anyone anymore. After I’m done with that I’m flying to Austria, so I can wipe that dirty grin off Franzl Lang’s smug face. He won’t be so damn happy after I give him a taste of his own bratwurst.
They remade Arthur with Russell Brand. They’ll remake Planet of the Apes on a bi-monthly schedule, until eventually they’ll be flying monkeys called up by a witch. There’s another Batman every half-hour, all of them bad, because all Batman anything sucks. They remade The Pink Panther, which is like eating leftovers from a meal you never ate. They remade Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner with Ashton Kutcher, for crissakes.
Remakes suck. They’re wrong and stupid. Do something new and creative. Maybe on the next version of Titanic, you equip it with deck guns and fire broadsides at the icebergs. That would be pretty sweet, but can’t you simply make a movie about the Lusitania instead? Sink something fresh. So let’s all of us agree. No more remakes!
Except Mad Max. They should remake that one. They should remake it while working on the script for the next one. They should have a line of succession like they do for royalty, but it’s just producers for Mad Max movies. When one gets blowed up real good while sitting in one of those deck chairs too close to the splosions, another one is immediately crowned and gets to work. Generally producers don’t get blown up on movie sets, because they hang around offices and let the directors sit around waiting for the actors to sober up enough to mumble their lines; but the Mad Max producer was there to complain to the director that he wasn’t spending enough money, and didn’t have enough splosions and hot rod races in the movie, and he better get cracking because there are 400 directors in line behind him that will have so many explosions they’ll make Michael Bay look like Woody Allen.
I need that level of commitment. I need a movie about a man that understands the value of gasoline, and uses it for everything, including cologne. I need Mad Max.