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the wuc bytes – high anxiety

I love this movie like the most dogeared page of a well-travelled passport.

It remains one of my favourite holidays. A place my parents took me as a kid, intrinsically tied to my rapscallion youth and favourite laughs with my sibs. A place we’d revisit time and again, in person or phrenic photo, quoting the lines until they became ours first.

It was on this trip that I first met Madeline Kahn (who made me happy in my comedo bone, long before there was any Tina of blessed Fey); and the vested-uncle to my levity, Mel Brooks (aka dude who put farts on the map). And Brophy. My buddy Bro-phy. Good times.

the wuc bytes – nothing to lose

Believe it or not, there’s one day a year where I embody the betterment of mankind.

On this day, I frolic through the proverbial with a photo of Betty White in one hand and a winning smile in the other. Birds perch on my shoulder performing Pink songs, I make people chuckle (the sound like Chopsticks on Buddha’s teeth) and I instill world peace with a single Tim Tam. And people love me (you really love me!) like a nipple twist at the World Rally.

I used to think this incarnation was my true self and the crotchety old miser the interloper. What an ignoramus, yo. When fools try to reconnect with this wondrous human the next day, they are instead met with me: Walter Matthau in drag. (Cue evil laughter.)

If we’re gonna silver line this puppy: I do get one day a year where other peoples’ kids don’t chafe me like Jerry Bruckheimer on every DVD extra ever-fucking-made.

But silver linings are for astronaut undies, my friends.

“It means, there’s a spider. on your mutherfucken head, man.”

the wuc bytes – grosse pointe blank

Mondays mornings are akin to having my ass sand-papered after a long bike ride.

Insult to wedgie is the fucking two-hour management meeting which goes down first thing every Monday. Being coherent and upright really sticks in my craw. (I confess, I told the sun to fuck off this morning.) (It was shining right in my eye, your honour!)

Pause for photo of Ryan Reynolds’ undies and zen-inducing breath.

Ah, Grosse Pointe (turns to greet movie warmly), I love you as if you single-handedly nullify Baz Lurman’s existence. Blessed be those Cusacks, John or Joan. They make me happy in my John Hughes bone. Such is my joo-joo love that, while Minnie Driver burns my toast to volcanic lava with her prolific freckles and outlandish chin, just this once I’m gonna let it slide.

“You can never go home again, Oatman! But I guess you can shop there.”

the wuc bytes – as good as it gets

It’s my birthday, yo.

Ordinarily, I’d be rocking back and forth in an extended foetal, like Andy Dick routinely on a Friday night; but I’m feeling pret-ty goood (to be said like Jon Lovitz). I feel like doing a jaunty Irish jig whilst wearing a tutu made entirely from birthday cards.

Instead, I’m gonna see a grandiose production of Mary Poppins; then get my pink wig on and go dancing. Yeah, baby! No doubt, I’ll have a humiliating tale to recount upon rising tomorrow; looking like Melvin Udall in drag – boobs and wig askew.

Gay Prince would be so proud.

“Sell crazy some place else, we’re all stocked up here.”

the wuc bytes – anchorman

I love this movie as if it were a love child produced from an ill-fated yet delicious union with Robert Downey Jr. It makes me happy in my comedo bone.

It makes me want to grow a curly moustache and smoke a sea-captain pipe.

It makes me want to dance in long-johns painted with prancing puppies.

No, scratch that. I’d never fucking do that. Actually, I’d take a shotgun to whoever dances in long-johns painted with prancing puppies. Then I’d watch Anchorman, the corpse cooling beside me – a coffee table for my popcorn and soda.

“Boy, that escalated quickly.”

“It jumped up a notch.”

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