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ISSUE #112
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Features

ArrowMcCain's Mutiny
Why "Mr. Integrity" wants the war to drag on
Allan Uthman

ArrowThe Negligents
How to convert ignorance into “skepticism”
Ben Zaitchik

ArrowCivil War?
An oxymoron in one act
Ian Murphy

ArrowBaker-Hamilton Omission Report
Iraq Study Group aims to change perception, not reality
Matt Taibbi

ArrowThe BEAST Holiday Gift Guide
Because you must consume!

ArrowAre YOU a Racist?
Take the BEAST Quiz!

Local BEAST

ArrowAn Important Message from our Fearless Leader
Paul Fallon

Departments

ArrowThe Beast Page 3
Environmental Apocalypse

ArrowKino Korner: Movies
Turistas, Blood Diamond, Unaccompanied Minors, Apocalypto, The Holiday

ArrowBEAST-O-Scopes
As divined by your ethereal guide

Arrow[sic] - Letters
Fiends Like These, Cutler & Run, That's [sic], Osama for your Mama and more

 

Kino Korner

 


Turistas | Blood Diamond | Unaccompanied Minors
Apocalypto | The Holiday


The Holiday

The HolidayI’ve always known that the death toll rises around the holidays, but someone recently tried to blow sunshine up my ass by telling me the reason is because the gates of heaven are opened extra wide on those times of year. Needless to say, I’m not buying it. There’s nothing that anyone can tell me that’s going to convince me that stupid Christmas sweaters, horrific renditions of tired Christmas songs, tribes of mongoloids scavenging around Wal-Marts and rumbles over Playstation 3s aren’t the reason why Christmas sucks. I worked retail for half a decade so I think I can safely say that I’ve built up something of an immunity to all that shit. My now-numbed heart now feels nothing when Amy Grant sings Christmas songs or when people buy her CDs. My soul still dies a little bit each time that happens, but my heart feels nothing.

But there’s still The Holiday Movie. You know what I’m talking about: The pile of sentimental bullshit that somehow takes life through a process of fermentation. You pile up people with impossibly great jobs which affords them loads of money. They’re somehow impossibly well-adjusted and their biggest problems are usually of the relationship variety or involve which designer garment to purchase. And it’s always directed by some pompous fag hag who manages to keep things repugnantly cute for a couple hours and wrap it all up with a nice big bow.

I can never tell if this type of movie is somehow supposed to alleviate the so-called Holiday Blues or send you spinning even more out of control. All I know is that no matter how much I prepare, no matter how early I get my Christmas shopping done, no matter how intense of a Zen-like state I suppress my mind into, there’s always some shit-ass holiday movie that pushes me over the edge and strips away my ability to maintain. That’s why without fail I always go on some horrific quest that involves self-discovery, self-destruction and ends with me finally coming around in a state I’ve never been in, let alone would never consciously visit.

One year I ended up on a eight-day peyote bender with a case of sunstroke that left my skin with a reptilian texture until the Cinco de Mayo of the following year. Another year I woke up in Utah with six wives, one of which weighed less than me. There was the year I ended up as a Merchant Marine, the year I woke up handcuffed to a dead Vegas showgirl with a wooden leg and yet another ring on my finger and another where I woke up with the taste of Barbasol in my mouth and the soundtrack from Rent in my head. I’ve never even fucking seen Rent!!! But if I were asked what the bitch of the bunch was, I’d have to say it was the year I woke up a Canadian citizen, wearing zubas and in the middle of a Party of Five marathon. Regardless of the year, there always seemed to be blood spattered on a wall wherever I regained consciousness.

I’ve come to accept the fact that each and every year I will end up on one of these hellish nightmares, miles from home and that they get worse and worse every year. And the level of madness that the situation dictates has something to do with the bullshit level of the movie. That Jack Nicholson/Diane Keaton flick Something’s Gotta Give? That was the Party of Five year. What frightens me is that the director who did that one, Nancy Meyers, is directing this year’s descent into synthetic holiday horror.

And this year’s trip south of crap is The Holiday. It stars Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet as e-mail buddies who decide to get away from their tragic lives of film editing and journalism by swapping homes in The States and England respectively. So Fishface winds up fucking Winslet’s brother, Jude Law as the consummate charming Englishman, and Winslet gets the shit end of the stick when Jack Black shows up. Oh, and if you think you’re getting off lucky with that kicked-when-you’re-down stomp to the nuts, forget it. In addition to this hate crime, we’ve got the wide-eyed cute kids what will probably give every woman with mummified maternal instincts Baby Fever, the lovable old man/neighbor/plot device and… wait for it…. wait for it… THE SCENE-STEALING DOG!

Titty-fucking tortoises! That fucking dog always puts me over the edge! Shit! It was at this point I felt The Change. Bill Bixby and Pure Rage took over and I couldn’t stop it. Singing penguins… Little Man…American Idol…Cameron Diaz… Arrrgh!

[Editor’s note: Michael Gildea has not been seen or heard from in several days. This edition of Kino Korner was pulled from the hard drive of his computer, which had been damaged beyond repair, apparently with its own keyboard. Mike, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry about misspelling your name.]

 

 

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