Friday, 4 November 2011

Screenplay #6

Fat Shifters

Slater Wilcox

High paid jobs and get fit regimes are the new cocaine for yuppie pussies. Bums are trampled to death by joggers, stray dogs are hideously scalded by steaming cappuccinos, and loners experience major social suspension. In this cruel world of the have and have nots who can cut the mustard and who’s just cuttin’ the cheese?


Jon and Julia jog down the street in jogging tights, talking about the latest episode of THE BIG BANG THEORY.

Jon: Did you see it last night? It was hysterical! There was a bit where Jared nearly got laid but he didn’t cuz he’s too annoying and socially awkward to get any of the pussy that’s banging. But it is funny right? HA!

They neatly side step a lonely looking fellow with no friends.

Julia: Eurgh, did you see that guy? I think he was checking out my camel toe. Pervert.

Jon: Your camel toe? No way Jules, he was checking out my M-C-T.

Julia: MCT?

Jon: Yeah, Male Camel Toe. And my camel toe is way bigger than yours.

Julia: Nuh-uh! [Hoiks her jogging bottoms up to accentuate her camel toe]

Jon slows his jogging pace, looks down at the contours of Julia’s newly configured camel toe and nods in an impressed manner. They then continue to jog in silence for a minute or two.

Jon: Where shall we eat tonight? Or do you wanna get something easy from Waitrose? I kind of fancy getting something from Waitrose, work today was so boring and I need something delicious to perk me up. Karen at work has such an attitude problem, she bosses everyone around and she’s not even senior management! I mean where the hell does she get off on that?

[They start to cross a high bridge which runs over a murky, sinister looking river]

Julia: Yeah, that is kind of weird and Jesus Jon, FUCKING BORING. I can’t live in a world when I have to start competing with you over camel toes! Go to hell MOTHERFUCKERRRRRR......

Julia abruptly cuts away from Jon and takes a running leap over the barrier, headfirst off the bridge.

Monday, 29 August 2011

Crime of Passion

I have become obsessed with Big Brother Skateboarding magazine again. It always happens when I ebay my possessions - I sell them, then a few weeks later want my shit back plus more. It happened when my mum threw away my Smurf collection when I was 20 years old. For years I had these eight smurf figures on the windowsill in my room; I thought they looked cool but it may explain why I so rarely went on any dates- guys with interesting personalities don't have Smurf collections. One day I returned home to find my mum had thrown away my motherfucking smurfs. It wasn't a big deal but over time I couldn't stop thinking about what happened to them. Where had they gone? On some crazy fuckin' smurfin' adventures no doubt. Then I started to miss them and one night shortly afterwards I freaked out and bought 10 smurfs off ebay. I felt very smug and I knew treacherous mother wouldn't dare throw these away cuz then I'd hit her back with 20 more smurfs. When they came in the post the reality of smurfs wasn't as exciting as the prospect and I remembered all the times those little fuckin' smurfs hadn't got me laid. What the fuck does a 20 year old man do with 10 plastic smurf figures? I hid them in shame.

Right now I am selling off my Big Brother collection but it has made me nostalgic. Big Brother went far beyond skateboarding and it was what got me into writing nonsense in the first place. I have also rediscovered my first crush on a completely unattainable celebrity - Kendra Gaeta. She wrote for Big Brother from about 1993 to 1999. She was cute, could write better than most of the other staff and made fun out of a lot of serious skateboarders. Last night I couldn't stop thinking about her and in the morning found her myspace page so I could get the picture which appears at the top of this page. I also found a crazy song Wesley Willis sung about her in 1994:

I have also uploaded a page from Lucida Console #7 about a real life crush that happened in 2007 that involved neither Smurfs or Kendra. Reading it again makes me cringe. 

Thursday, 21 July 2011

Suck my Dickens

Back off tour, feeling downbeat and miserable. This last tour was amazing. El Morgan and The State Lottery made me like I had reached the pinnacle of human happiness. I don't think I could have had a better time. I got home and hit a trough of dispair. I feel like everything is tiresome dogshit but I have no reason. Anyway, enough of the moping; here's the first draft of an idea I had whilst reading Roger Mellie's Profanisaurus Rex. I wanted to make a dictionary of touring band slang and here's my first attempt. Fuck on brothers and sisters.

Charles Dickens
A promoter who puts on a shit show in a shit venue. As in "Fucking hell this promoter looks like a right Charles Dickens" Meaning you may have "Great Expectations" but you're in for "Hard Times" in a "Bleak House".

Early Bird Special
When you're the first person to wake up and you get to shit before anyone else.

Party Blanket
When you sleep on the same floor that you partied on.

Punk Pasta
The famous promoter pasta dish which is prepared hours before the show and left to cool. Compromising of ice cold pasta and a thin film of Tesco value tomato sauce. Especially delicious when it's the only thing you've eaten all day.

Terminal Vanlocity
The point in a van journey where you absolutely can't take anymore and flip the fuck out.

Chunky Drive-by
When someone pukes out of the van window whilst in transit, and the vomit hits a pedestrian or the car behind.

I'm done. This is terrible.

Friday, 24 June 2011

BAM! POW! While you're waiting to hear mortar fire, check this out.

Attack! Vipers! Promo shot August 2010

This week has seen a splodge of activity on the blog because I feel so goddamn creative and inspired at the moment. This current spell on the dole (my fourth so far) is the best yet. My JSA Personal Advisers should be promoted to SUPERvisers. I mean, they are just THE SHIT. Giving out indespensible advice about starting a career in the local bacon factory and helping me with my fashion dillemas (how didn't I know that Tesco sold cheap clothes?!). I always come away from the jobcentre feeling as sharp as a thumbtack and as charming as George Clooney in a sexy rom com.

I am less than excited about employment and all the bullshit surrounding it but I am excited about having some zines to sell next week. They are being printed in Andrew and Kay's flat right now! In the meantime here's some more stuff to browse over.

A rather bizarre piece from Urgent Avenue #1

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

It looks like someone puked on a pile of shit!""

I'm experimenting with a new lay out for my blog which invokes the spirit of Clip Art and Microsoft Publisher 98 - the program I use to make all my zines. I will continue to be willfully horrendous with my design and layout until the style becomes hip and I get famous.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

30 Days of Hangover: Europe 2011

Hello my musical munchers, here is a tasty bit of Dog Days Volume Two for you to browse over. Chew it, nibble it, consume, CONSUME! I'll be selling the full thing on the State Lottery tour next month for £1. Come to one of these shows:



I'll be attempting to mill about the shows like a social fairy. You see I have entered a new phase of my life, that of the "great crust romantic". I am trying to force myself into enjoying being social, sexy in a non-creepy way, and crusty. It's a damn hard juggling act. Hope you like these two entries!

Thursday 26th May

Budapest, Hungary

There are days on tour where you could happily stay in one place for ever and said a fond farewell to your previous existence. I didn’t want to leave Zagreb. Iva is a fine human being to spend time with and Croatia still has so much to offer but we’ve got other more pressing priorities – like driving all day long in Nibbler. Tonight we’re playing underneath “The Party Hostel” in Budapest which is a pretty exciting prospect. I imagine loads of sexy tourists going wild all night long with little or no morals.

I can’t remember the drive to Budapest so let’s assume it wasn’t any fun at all. Crossing the throbbing Danube at 6pm was euphoric. I think Bram Stoker summed it up nicely in Dracula that crossing that banging river feels like you’re crossing a border between the east and west. Things seem slightly spicier and more erotic across that body of water. I also love that feeling whilst on tour that nothing else in the world matters – the feeling of being free and punk, if that makes any sense.

After idling around the party hostel courtyard for a couple of hours drinking beers and smoking cigarettes (courtesy of Papa Roo), the rest of the bands turn up and we begin the proceedings. Tonight we have the displeasure of playing with some sexist Brazilian cunts called Strip No Altar. They are complete turkeys. Before one song their bassist announces,

“This song is about guns, violence, and drugs!”

They have Strip No Altar panties for sale and their album cover is two scantily clad women getting up to some typical “hetro fantasy” lesbian nonsense.

They have dubious lyrics such as:

“I just wanna smoke some crack, I just wanna find a big bed, so I can take my bitch there.”

When they sing the line about smoking crack their drummer pretends to smoke his God. I was a bit drunk and found them completely laughable so shouted for an encore, they didn’t need much encouragement and quickly played one of the sexist humdingers they played earlier in the set. Fuck! Andrew rightfully got really mad at me for spurring them on.

I forget the name of the other band, but I liked them. They sounded like ALL. Anyway, no food or no place to stay tonight and paid very little money. We organised to stay in this guy Peter’s spare apartment in the Gypsy district of town, so no erotic party hostel fantasy tonight. Peter makes sure that we understand it’s very basic accommodation – no shower, toilet flushed with a bucket of water, odd Gypsy neighbours etc. The building itself is incredible, it looks like something out of a WW2 movie – it’s so old and battered. There’s bullet holes in the front of the building from the 1956 Hungarian Revolution and you can see a line where a bomb hit it. Despite its raggedy looks I thought it was quite charming. I sleep in the van for security. A poor choice – our parking space is right next to the hottest back alley piss spot in town and throughout the night I am rudely awoken by men relieving themselves against the wall. Haha, grim.

Friday 27th May

Cluj-Napoca, Romania

Before leaving the UK Andrew and I blacked out Nibbler’s windows with this stick on film. A tricky procedure that we messed up a couple of times before getting it stuck on bubble free. This morning I utilised these blacked out windows by jerking off in peace, knowing that the people who walked past Nibbler wouldn’t see lil’ monkey playing with himself. Haha, how pathetic (and creepy and illegal).

Micah the Finnish dude who played drums in the ALL band came and got the apartment keys from us as we sat in Nibbler finishing off our nutritious breakfast of crisps, cheese, horseradish sauce, bread and a suspiciously named “Orange Drink”. This meal doesn’t help the fact that we’re all greasy as fuck today and have got to spend the next eight hours making our slimy way to Romania. After sleeping in the van and eating breakfast in the van there’s nothing I like to do more than to spend all day in the van. 300c and Romanian roads, what a fiendish combination! Once we cross the border it doesn’t take long for the Romanian road celebrities to make an appearance – Gypsies on horse and carts, stray dogs, storks in massive nests atop of telegraph pole, fucked up old men who look like Super Mario bumbling about the pavements, half built Gypsy mansions with metallic oriental style roofs, and roadsides littered with people selling bowls of berries.

To see us through this marathon journey we take sustenance from crisps and warm water served at van-temperature. I feel myself turning see thru. Once we arrive in Cluj there is an onslaught of beautiful girls roaming the streets, “full on, non-stop” as the popular phrase says on all the Romanian shop fronts. As we enter into a pesky traffic jam we see the prettiest girl we have collectively seen sat in the back seat of a taxi. Oh Taxi-Girl……your name doesn’t really do you any justice. Sorry for staring.

There’s a festival happening in Cluj to celebrate 800 years of the city so the whole place is rammed with people. This city is something else…so amazing. At the venue we meet the promoter Paul and Schlitz, a band we played several dates with in Romania last year. It’s nice to be so far from home and in the company of friends, plus Schlitz are a totally kick-ass punk rock band! For dinner we are brought a bag full of cheese and radish toasties, argh! They are pretty tasty but the bread and cheese diet is leaving me feeling like a human wreck hanging from a meat hook, I’ve gotta eat some vegetables. Roo and I venture out into the city and come across a green grocer which is still open at 9.30pm. A bit of greenery perks me up and we go and check out the festival which is happening in the square. Up on stage is a terrible Euro-pop duo singing a twatish song with lyrics that Roo interprets as “I’m so greasy all the time, I’m so greasy I want to cry.” They’re singing about being on tour! Once again the show is packed out with about 150 people and some very desirous girls are in attendance, if only I wasn’t so greasy that I want to cry!

The first band “Sk. Ank” (yes, you read that right) play for nearly an hour and cover Jimmy Eat World and Blink 182 in a horrible ska fashion. People go completely apeshit for them. Strip No Altar have followed us like a horrible eggy fart and are playing tonight as well. For fuck sake. They get up on stage and perform their worn out hedonistic diatribe. Grow up and fuck off. They sing about drinking loads of booze too but I have yet to see them drink anything besides water. They are the worst kind of sexist pussies who should be flogged and driven across the land. They perform their hit song “Boomerang”, the general gist of which is “women always return no matter how much of a prick you are”. Urgh. There is a little break in the music and their singer announces “Now I will show you why the ladies ALWAYS come back…” For a moment we all thought he was going to flop out his humongous wanger but no, he just played an uninspired guitar solo. Come on, get your dick out for the lads mate.

I start to feel pretty nauseous and physically broken shortly before we go onstage at 1AM and struggle my way through our set all higledy pigeldy. I am disappointed in my performance and feel annoyed at driving all this way only to suck. Andrew has enjoyed a bit of booze before playing and tells me that he thought I played pretty good, which is ok by me. Much merriment is had after the show and sure enough the 60% Romanian moonshine makes a welcomed appearance but I won’t be enjoying it as I’m driving tonight, alright! Seeing Schlitz again was so good, really friendly guys too. Their punk rock deliciousness is easily better than 90% of the bands we play with but of course they don’t get the recognition they deserve cuz they’re from the ass end of no where. Their bassist Dan was pretty drunk and he jokingly asked, “You’ve been here once before, so why the fuck have you come back? Didn’t you learn?!” Being a young person living in Romania must be pretty difficult, unemployment is rife and it’s difficult to get out. Gotta roll with the punches I guess. But what the fuck do I know? It might rule. Anyway, in my opinion Schlitz were the best band that played this night and I wish them all the best in the future.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Mass Fanzine Alert!

HAIL PUSSIES! Next month I am on tour with the State Lottery for two weeks. Currently I am on the dole and have 15 pence to my name. I am fucked. However I have reason to be very cheerful indeed - I have made two fanzines in time for the tour - Slime Capsule #1 and Dog Days #2. I'll be selling them from the merch stand in the hopes of having enough money to afford breakfast the next day. Here's a snippet from Slime Capsule called "The Beers in My Life". I assure you there more exciting things going on in the fanzine than this article, such as the Heavy Mental screenplay, Attack Vipers interview, a guide to stalking telepathically, reviews of music and books, plus some sweet comics from Oliver John Ward. In the mean time check out this turgid bullshit. Smell ya soon, humpers.

(Here's a picture of my Master Journalist Apprentice Wesley Moon who also features heavily in Slime Capsule. I hope you look forward to hearing of our CONSPIRACY BUSTING ADVENTURES!)


The Beers in my Life

By Slater Wilcox

Like most people I thought beer was pretty disgusting when I first drank it, but I guess Courage Light 2.3% ale wasn’t a great starting point for a young boozer. I remember drinking a can of Stella in the top bunk at my friend Toby’s house when I was 15, it made me feel very sick indeed. In the night I heard that motherfucker drinking a pint of blackcurrant squash really loudly, taking massive audible gulps - “GRULP-GRULP”- and my stomach churned. I thought I might puke on him, luckily I kept it down and I guess I’ve been keeping it down ever since. I have had friends and relatives succumb to alcoholism but the good times with beers outweighs the negative. Henry Miller once wrote a book called “The Books in my Life” which documented every book which meant something to him or provided him with inspiration, following this highly intelligent and informative vein, Slater Wilcox documents…“The Beers in my Life”.

FIREBRAND Czech Lager, Cans (2004)

My first love. It bit me like a snake then left my life like a ghostly lover. I used to sit in my room in my first year with a twelve pack (if I was feeling wealthy) put on Alkaline Trio and sing at the top of my lungs. One night I cheated on Firebrand with white wine and ended up puking off the pier into the sea, then falling asleep on a bench. I stumbled home and did some synchronized puking with Roo into my toilet. That was probably my first case of “wine after beer, Oh dear”. Around 2004/2005 Firebrand became the choice beerdrink of my contemporaries on many a wild and lonely night. Sadly it went the way of the dinosaurs and became part of boozy myth and legend. I’ll never forget Castle Rock in 2006 when we bought the last out of date 24 pack of Firebrand ever from Threshers. It was one of the hottest days of the summer, I turned down a girl I should have passionately embraced cuz my mind was all fuckin’ twisted up over the last ever Firebrands. Firebrand was discontinued and I was heartbroken. The first time is the deepest, as those sentimental slopsters say.

Groschl 24 Pack, Bottles (2005)

Roo and I made literally no friends in our second year of university. I was 21 and a fucking social recluse. However we did drink ice cold bottles of grolsch every night whilst watching Dawson’s Creek and Scrubs. I can remember dangling empty bottles on strings out of our window and clinking them against the flat below’s windowpanes, just to piss them off. In a similarly daring “in-flat” adventure we even tried to drink 24 beers over the course of 24 episodes of Dawson’s Creek series 2 in one sitting. Of course, we ended up drinking about 12 beers in the course of two episodes and falling asleep on the sofa. Interesting fact: During the three years of university education, I had no sexual experiences at all.

Red Stripe, Six Pack of Cans (2006)

Roo and I lived in a shop during our third year. We moved in with two hedgers who loved drugs. Before getting involved with any of that nonsense I used to frequent the corner shop two hundred yards from my house and buy six packs of Red Stripe for £5.99. I’d buy one at about 2pm then go back at 6pm feeling buzzed on beer and guilty that I was buying another one. I’m sure the clerk didn’t give a flying fuck. One day I drank a bunch of beers and jumped off the pier at 1pm then fell asleep on the beach. Another time I got wasted and on my nightly stroll invited six homeless people sleeping outside the Salvation Army back to my house to sleep in the warm. I was deeply hurt when they said no, but in hindsight I just probably looked like a twat. I stopped drinking Red Stripe when I ran out of money and started drinking Barn Stormer cider instead. A bad time in my life which shan’t be documented here.

Carlsberg Export (2009)

During my first tenure on the dole (which lasted 6 months) I developed a fixation with eight packs of Carlsberg export. Four deliciously brewed chums sitting there in Spar shop, tightly knit, shoulder to shoulder and ice cold! If I had one in my possession it meant the day was assured, everything would fall into place right up until I fell asleep. If not, the day might be a whirligig of disparity dipshitiness. Greg, the ex singer of Crocus, once came round to my house on one of the latter misery days when I couldn’t afford anything – I was playing Lego Batman in my dressing gown at 2.30pm in the dark when he gently knocked on the window. In a lugubrious movement, I drew the blinds and solemnly greeted him. The first thing he said as he looked about the room was “depression chamber”. You don’t know who’s been swimming naked until the tide goes out, and I definitely had my balls out at that time in my life.

Tuborg Bottled Lager (2010 – 2011)

Probably the reason I have such a bad attitude to work is because I have only ever worked fucking shit jobs. Beer delivery bitch, fishmonger, greengrocer/cardboard box crusher. It seems like I’m on a personal quest to get the most obscurely rubbish job possible. I first started getting into Tuborg whilst working at the fishmongers. It was so horrid there that I developed quite the drinking habit. After a long day of marine death mongering I would drive to the Texaco and buy 8 ice cold Tuborgs for £5. The best part about Tuborg is the ring pull tops which eliminate the tricky problem of opening beers whilst driving. So confident I became with my in-transit beer drinking skills that I even used to smash ‘em down when I started cycling back from work.

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Battlefield: Los Angeles [non spoiler alert]

The hangover ran it's course. I felt insane. Where better to get some reconcilliation than another pit of despair Plymouth cinema sunday!

This time I had spent the day playing football and drinking beers on the steps of my friend's house. He had broken his collar bone at football but didn't want to go to the hospital for some odd reason. We came up with a plan to see True Grit without paying. We were going to check all the fire escapes and failing that - bum rush the entrance. It was sure fire and half cocked.

At that moment as we were just about to leave, my friend's step dad came and picked him up and carted him off to hospital at such a spanking pace that I hardly had time to realise I was alone again. Nevermind, I thought. I still wanted to go to the cinema.

By the time I got there I had sobered up a little and felt exhausted, I knew how this was going to turn out. True Grit wasn't on so I asked the kid on the desk about sci fi; he recommended Battlefield: Los Angeles. I paid my £8 and entered the screen, I had tried in vain to get in through the back of the cinema but only managed to get into the bowling alley next door, so gave up.

I watched 10 minutes of the most generic alien invasion bullshit and then fell asleep for the rest of the film. I awoke with a wet crotch and heard someone behind me say, "Well I guess that was the Alien's Achillies Heel." I can explain the wet crotch as I had dropped my drink in my lap whilst I slept, but for the life of me I don't know what the heck happened in that film.

Sunday, 20 February 2011

Groundbreaking Feminist Sci Fi Weed Theory

Last night was to supposed be "Telepathic Date Night". It's an idea I had for SlimeCapsule. I figured that in times of great desperation it isn't entirely impossible to go in through the back door of a girl's mind to win her over. I bought a ten bag of weed, some atmospheric candles, printed out a 6X10 picture of my "date", and put on some binaural music. After the first joint I remembered Aliens was on TV at 9. I stood my date up. Sorry. Instead I watched Aliens stoned and came to the conclusion that it was the most radical feminist film ever made. I even wrote a review whilst high. Check it out! Spelling mistakes and poor grammar from the original note are included.

Aliens - ultimate female empowerment

Men "discover" Ripley in cryo gen. Adam and Eve?

With great mistrust she helps men to fight Aliens. She gradually builds respect in male dominated environment. Turning point when face hugger is put in her bedroom. She refuses to "get pregnant". Leads to M/F contention. How will she come out of this?


Effemination of Hicks after his injury. He looses his role of male protector to Ripley. He turns to drugs [he injects painkiller after he gets acid blood on his chest]. Doesn't speak for the rest of the film. MOTHER SUPERIOR.

RIPLEY VS QUEEN ALIEN - GENDER BETRAYAL. Mistrust of foreigners (aliens) indicitive of human beings?

LAYERS AND LAYERS OF DESTRUCTION. Alien>human>robot>alien. Very good theory.

So there you are: the worst piece of writing i've done for a while, and I even skipped out on a hot telepathic date for it. Idiot. SlimeCapsule is coming along marvellously by the way. Should be done in the next month!

Friday, 4 February 2011

Reality is Trivivial

Trying to get my mind round making another fanzine at the moment. It's not hard: filling fanzines with middle of the road crud is the standard. At the moment I'm trying to let go of my inhibitions and write what I really think about. It's a cleasing process I think. Once I get rid of the weirdness running thru my mind maybe I can lead a normal life. Maybe when I stop fantasising about the mean spirited Chinese lady at work, maybe when I stop going to watch rom coms by myself, maybe when I stop walking for miles into the middle of nowhere by myself because I can't wait for the end of the world. These feelings come and go.

Right now I've got a whole bunch of shit being typed but it's all thoroughly MIDDLE OF THE FLIPPIN' ROAD. A couple of years ago I briefly fell in love with a girl who worked in a butchers. She stunk.

The Pork Queen

Slater Wilcox

I have worked with some total shitheads in the past, real horrid cunts. The guy in the bakery with no front teeth and a moustache who used to mutter “kinky” every time a major babe walked past in boots. Then there was the guy in the warehouse who preferred to sleep with women on their periods as it “felt better”. The guy in the pub with a penchant for the “suck it and see” t shirts. And the guy in the lorry who yelled “NICE NIPPPLES” at a 50 year old lady on a cold day in St Austell.

I trollied the 20 cases of wine round the back of the butcher's shop. The door opened to the scent of raw meat and a very attractive Irish girl. It stank, but she was beautiful. I became delirious. I imagined her black hair smelling of pork as I spanked her with a 10oz rib eye steak. If she'd have taken her clothes off, I would have eaten them. However, my nose was dripping and the guy I worked with kept insisting that I was gay; I felt like I had the charisma of a clogged toilet. Nothing happened between me and the Pork Queen.

Thursday, 3 February 2011

When did your name change from a noun into a charm?

Anyone seen "How do you know" the new Paul Rudd film? I did last Sunday night. Hungover and grotesque, feeling like a middle of the road rom com would be the only thing that would pull me through the grimy dullness, I decided to take the plunge and attend a slushy romantic film all on my lonesome. Sure enough the only other people there were new couples and fat, lonesome nerds who also loved Paul Rudd. It made me feel better, like I wasn't kook. The cinema is free from judgement and I find it immensely relaxing; a dark room where you can fullfil your darkest desires by watching a rom com by yourself. In watching this Paul Rudd film I finally understood why they chose to name another of his films "I love you, man." I goddamn love him, man.

I sat there soothing my dry, hungover mouth with ice cold fanta. Drinking 8.2% cider the night before had annihilated my brain and I had puked, been sick as a dog; my mind felt like a clogged gutter in Autumn, full of stinkin' brown slime. At first I couldn't get my head around what was actually happening in "How do you know". Nothing had made sense all day so how was I to understand the purest and simplest thing of them all - trashy american love [starring Paul Rudd]. The title of the movie reassured me that there was no simple answer to this fuckin' shit rom com.

It was only after 2/3 f my fanta that everything started to fall into place. That bitch [Reese Whitherspoon] loved that bitch [Paul Rudd]. Owen Wilson was there as just humorous filler, like a nervous fart in an exam; funny but distracting. Jack Nicholson shouted at Paul Rudd for a while, then Paul and Reese got on a bus, destination: Forever Love.

I left the cinema on that sub zero evening feeling like true love might exsist somewhere in this cruel world and that it wasn't just a construct of a multimillion dollar film industry made to pacify suckers for Paul Rudd. Never the less: I love you, man.