vituperation

January 24, 2005

Friday afternoon I called the spud into the computer room to show her the trailer for the new Fantastic Four movie. Go watch it, it’s germane to this section.

In the trailer, the following text shows:

“On July 4th, five people will be changed forever.”

(action)

“1 will be bad”

(action with that fine-lookin’ Christian Troy electrocuting someone with the static bizzap ‘o doom)

“4 will be…fantastic”

(more action, showing the flame guy, the stretch guy, the Thing, and the invisible chick. See? I know so little about them I can’t even name them.)

After the trailer ended with the name of the movie, the spud sat for a moment, staring blankly at the monitor while she processed what she’d just seen. Finally she spoke.

“I understand that one is ‘Bad’ and one is ‘Fantastic’,” she said. “But who are the other two?”

Not my genes, folks. Not my genes.

Speaking of movies, Cellular kicked some total ass. And speaking of books, which I wasn’t, Hostage is easily one of the best books I’ve read in a LONG time.

Warning: if you’re the type who feels the need to pass judgement and lecture people you don’t know on their child-rearing decisions, please close your browser now. Oh, and links in this section are generally not safe for work.

Have you ever had a memory of something that’s vastly different from the actuality of it?

Yesterday afternoon I sat down with the spud to watch Anchorman.

We made it about seven minutes.

I love me some Will Ferrell, but this movie was horrific. Even the spud agreed and asked me to stop it. To give you the gravity of just how bad a movie has to be for her to make such a request, consider this: the only other time she’s asked me to stop a movie was when we watched Battlefield Earth, widely considered by many to be the worst film ever made.

I stopped the movie and took the DVD out of the player. Looking through my personal DVD collection for something we hadn’t watched, I had a flash of inspiration. In my defense, this inspiration was based on a 5-year-old memory. I went into the computer room to confer with my wife.

“Bessie?”

She looked up from Hostage.

“The spud is practically seventeen now, and has seen plenty of R-rated movies. Don’t you think she could handle South Park?”

Robyn considered this.

“I mean,” I continued, speaking based on that memory. “It’s just got bad language, right? She’s heard us say plenty of bad words. I don’t remember there being any big sex scenes or anything.”

Begrudgingly, Robyn agreed that the spud could handle all the “fucks” and whatnot in South Park.

“Besides,” she said. “They’re just cartoons, right?”

I almost ran back into the den to put the DVD into the player.

“You’re in for a real treat,” I told the spud.

The movie started. We giggled, we laughed. We cackled at Terrance and Phillip and the song “Uncle Fucker”, one of the truly great moments in cinema history. Especially the fart solos. The tears, they were rolling.

The movie continued. I had a scary moment when Cartman’s mom explained what a rim job is, but the spud paid it no mind.

Then Stan asked the chef for advice on getting Wendy to like him.

“That’s easy,” said the Chef. “You just have to find the clitoris.”

The spud looked over at me. I pretended to study my fingernails.

“Fred? What’s the clitoris?”

Time ground to a halt. The ambient temperature in the room zoomed up fifty degrees in an instant. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. My mind raced. On the TV the movie continued, but I heard nothing except for the blood pounding in my ears. I felt like I was under an intensely bright light.

“Ah…” I said, ever the quick responder. “I. Well…”

The TV droned on. The voices reminded me of the wah-wah-wah techer voices in the old Charlie Brown cartoons. I tried to take a deep breath, wondering how the hell I’d gotten myself into this situation.

“It’s, well, you see…”

Suddenly her forehead smoothed. “OH!” she said. “THE CLITORIS!”

Safe.

Sadly, I’m not sure if she actually knows what it is, or if she just recognized that I was exceedingly uncomfortable.

Later in the movie, when Stan actually found the clitoris, the spud remarked that it looked like a big wad of chewed bubble gum.

Heh.

So, boys and girls, remember this: things aren’t always the way you remember them.

Late yesterday afternoon I stood in the kitchen, stirring a large pot of spaghetti sauce. The TV was on, and my new favorite video (which, combined with my recent Green Day purchase, I might point out, reaffirms my thought that the Toby Keith CD was just an anomaly) played softly in the background. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the spud walked into the room carrying a large softcover held open.

She gestured with the book. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes,” I said, then grinned. “And that was it.”

I never made it past fourth grade, can you tell?

She held out the book, which I saw was her Bible. It lay open to Matthew. Pointing at the Lord’s Prayer, she said, “I thought there was more to this. That it was longer.”

I looked at the book. Being one of the more modern translations, translated from the most reliable original texts, it lacked the whole “for thine is the kingdom, and the power, etc.” at the end. I explained this to her, and showed her the footnote that mentioned some texts contained those words. She thanked me and left.

Afterwards, it dawned on me that that was the first time I’d ever seen her reading the Bible since she found Jesus (he was behind the couch all along) and started going to church sporadically a couple of years ago.

I can’t help but wonder if it was watching South Park that did it.