So yesterday was my dad’s birthday. We celebrated it in the usual fashion–i.e., with familial drama abounding, cakes being made, Colin Farrell films being watched, and an altogether attitude of merriment. Let’s start with the third.
In Bruges kicks cinematic ass. It’s absolutely cheeky but at the same time deeply philosophical, and involves two middle aged Irish hitmen swearing and judo chopping dwarves. Oh, and the dwarves get high on cocaine and start ranting about how the white dwarves and the black dwarves are going to start a huge war. IF YOUR AWESOMENESS METER IS NOT READING 42 MEGAFONZIES RIGHT NOW THEN YOU DON’T DESERVE TO WATCH THIS GLORIOUS FILM, YOU PUPPY-KILLING FIEND.
Now let’s move on to number two.
I wanted to make a torte, but apparently no one else but me like tortes–I mean, dubya tee eff? How do you not like torte? Well, I mean, I don’t really have any room to talk because I hate cake and everybody always asks, what the smell, Shelbster, how do you not like cake? And then I just shrug and eat celery whilst drunkenly debating galoshes with my late 19th century Dublin friends. Well, at least, I would if they weren’t all Dead…
Four. Everybody loves chicken wings.
Five. Ah! Bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you?
neun. The end of Number Two is a reference to Joyce’s the Dead. Give yourself a pat on the back if you already knew that.
23. Yes, that was me Fibonaccing it.
37. In Hindsight, using the name Fibonacci as a verb seems unwittingly racist in some odd way…
18. That article from 14 is great. Why aren’t you reading it instead of this?
666. The ending is always the worst part. You get to the middle and think to yourself “Well, this can’t get any better, can it?” and then it doesn’t and you say to yourself, “fuck me for bein’ so smart,” but you say it in an Irish accent, and so it doesn’t sound dirty, just soiled, and you think to yourself, “Wait a second, I’m from Albuquerque, why do I suddenly sound like that guy from Black Books?” and it turns out that you were the tomato all along.