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WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE - Aka…Where The Shit Stains Are


By Old Dan Cedar - Posted on 10 December 2009

John Cougar joins in with the theme-song for this Leave it to Beaver of the Obama Millennium.

Here is a little warning regarding this review. It is mostly a rant, but you’re probably used to that - if you have an IQ above that achieved by the mental mongoloid that killed six Taco Bell co-workers 14 years ago and is praying for this president to make two more Supreme Court nominees prior to his case reaching said court – or you have previously read ANYTHING posted on this website.

Instruction Manual – Take an out of control 10 year-old (Max) with an over-active imagination. Add an over-coddling mother. What have you got?

Hang on a second, Asshole!!

What the egg-head reviewers are saying you have got.
“Oh, this is a brave, interpolation of a classic children’s book that takes some bold risks and doesn’t follow a traditional kid’s story line.”

What have you really got?

A recipe for trouble and an excellent example of how Hollywood teaches us to raise our kids here in America – Home of the Free…Land of the Brave…Little Pink Houses…Big Brown Shit Stains.

Here is my interpolation for you, Asshole!!

What this story needs is about 95 minutes less of a proselytizing movie!!

What Max needs?

His ass beat the way my Pappy used to beat mine.
With a belt and without mercy!!

Listen – you fucking feminist, bra burning, free-thinking, pot smokers thrust force on our “naïve”, God-fearing, Greatest Generation nation that was transformed by the likes of none other than John F. Kennedy, Bob Dylan, Abbie Hoffman and Charlie Manson. You can raise YOUR kid anyway that you want.

Let them have the run of the roost.

Give them tennis lessons.

Let them grow their hair as long as they want.

You want to color it blonde? Whatever you wish – my little king.

Your little boy wants an earring? Well, just take him on down to the local “Ink Joint” and maybe we can get him a tramp stamp at the same time. Hug him every time he runs off the court. Tell him he can be as wild as he wants and he is still a champion. Maybe little Johnny McEnroe will grow out of this and become an international, middle-aged sensation as a commentator. Maybe he will marry, quite possibly, the hottest female 80’s rocker.

But don’t come crying to me when little Andre Agassi marries a quasi-lesbian, Nazi Sympathizer and tests positive for Crystal Meth after he has been trying to sell me a “Rebel” camera for the past 10 years and NOW you’re offended that he is trying to sell me a faux-repentant anti-Rebel book.

Hey, Barbara Billingsley !! Nice Job!!

Maybe next time Hugh Beaumont decides to step out and spill his man-oats within the void of the local divorcee – you won’t be so quick to move Tony Dow and Jerry Mathers away from their “bad influence” – that 14 years-earlier you felt the need to snatch him with your virgin love-duct into a hapless existence of letting him believe HE was king of the county by supplying every meal that you ever roasted while wearing those charming white dresses and pearl necklaces – then turning around to question every parenting instinct poor Ward ever expressed while crossing your arms and rolling your eyes.

Maybe HE DOESN’T respect you!

Nor does Max - respect his teet-toting, provision-providing madre – and storms out after telling her, “Feed Me, Woman!!”

Isn’t that the way the 60s started? Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Pretty soon Tony and Jerry will be in the apartment dissecting Dark Side of The Moon and torching what your generation refers to as "a doob" - while Mrs. Cleaver is out at her second job waiting tables to pay the electric bill and using her breaks to blow the Denny’s manager (Eddie Haskel) in his office so she doesn’t have to kite more checks at the local Wal-Mart.

“You look lovely in that white-stained Denny’s dress, Mrs. Cleaver.”

But I digress. Back to this fecal-festering movie that movie studios have – no doubt – greased reviewer’s palms to give “two-thumbs way-up”.

So – since they have to take up 100 minutes where once were 10 sentences - We go through this drawn-out ordeal where Max has to befriend all of these dysfunctional and psychologically fucked-up Monsters.
And they are ALL Fucked Up!!
Damn you to Hell, Spike Jonze !!

If Max had landed in Hitler’s bunker in April of 1945 – he wouldn’t have found any more bomb-scarred, skittish, monstrous, Fucking Fucks.

Oh, but THESE monsters are FUN. They like to sleep in big piles, knock down trees and pull off their friend’s arm when they don’t like his attitude.

Nice touch – Mrs. Goebbels !!

Anyway - After A LONG TIME – Poor Max gets home sick.
His mom serves up the evening slop to his gnarly, little gut.

Ain’t that America !!

Next time – I’ll just take the cyanide, a bullet to the head with my 7.65mm pistol - and, oh yeah, Hans – remember to pour 50 gallons of petrol on my corpse before affixing the marshmallows to the coat hangers.

Give me an 11 page book and More S’mores, Please !!

And one less Hollywood lesson on how to raise my kids.

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