Tag Archives: film

the wuc bytes – dodgeball

I think GP broke me.

Not in a wild horse kinda way, understand. He aint the Wuc Whisperer, for cryin’.

Nor, for the record, have I sunk to Bridget Jonesean lows (all by myself in earnest and epilepsy, my undies big enough to house a troupe of transient midgets).

Neverthemore, lassy. Much like little lost Ledger on his mountain of gayness, or the pink boom box which fell from my teenage hand one Bangled day in June, I’m broke back good.

Blessed be my boom box. May you rest in Iko Iko an nay.

Where inspiration once flowed, as hot and steady as Ryan Reynolds on roller skates, now here I sit. My synapses on dolt delay. My thoughts as restless as the audience of any given panto. My literary light as wayward as a Lohan firefly.

GP, my figurative Fat Bastard, has stolen my motherlovin mmmojo (to be said like Autistic Powers). He took my, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs. (He ate a baby.)

What am I to do, you ask? Well, there’s only one thing you can do when life gives you a wedgie so profound, your children are picking the cotton from their cleave for generations.

the wuc bytes – burglar

Note to self: do not drop a dry-roasted soy bean down your cleavage. Especially when your boss is sitting be-side you.

Like a pinball boomeranging between two goal posts (mounds de mammilla), it paused above the cleave and then dove forth, with the intrepid spirit of an Olympic diver. And as I sat there in soy soliloquy (shall I dive in after it on a rescue mish the likes of which Hasselhoff has never seen?), my boss turns to me in righteous repose and strikes up a conversation.

That’s right, folks. With the renegade bean nestled betwixt my bosom like Benny Hill on a Saturday night, I nodded professionally and took notes. Mmmm. Uh huh. I like what you’ve done here. And here. And … for the love of almighty Cher, give it up already!

Finally, after he’d killed my will to live with a barrage of Elmer Fudd Rs (or should I say, bawwage) (for weals, yo) and with everyone thusly averted, I surreptitiously scrounged among my bazookas for the bean that Jack forgot. But alas. It was … gone?

I can only assume the gnome took it as a peace offering.

“Oh! NO! I don’t wanna upset you.”

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.”

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