Ooooo! I love it when crazy people get money! It's my second favorite thing (first favorite: fresh cow's milk, hot from the teat!), because, you see, money functions like a doctor who delivers crazy people's crazy-brain-idea-babies and knocks the mucus plugs out of their little slimy noses and gnaws through their figurative umbilical cords and then tosses them from the mountaintop into the gaping maws of hungry lions, just like in that opening scene from The Lion King, you know? (I haven't seen it.) And we, the people? WE ARE THE LIONS! Roar! More babies! (I love metaphors—they're my fourth favorite thing [third favorite: some of the films of James Earl Jones]).

In yeah-it's-six-years-old-but-just-bear-with-me business, The Room—one of the best crazy-people vanity projects EVER (according to Wikipedia, writer/director/star/desiccated-apple-head-pioneer-doll Tommy Wiseau financed the $7 million film by "importing leather jackets from Korea")—is finally screening in Seattle. The film plays regularly in L.A., where it's become a Rocky Horror–style interactive experience and, reportedly, has won the hearts of many celebrities who enjoy humorous pleasures (Paul Rudd, David Wain, whoever else, blah blah blah). And, just like Paul Rudd told you, it is very, very terrific. Now never doubt Paul Rudd again. Dick.

So. Do you like sexual and slightly French man-groans? Do you like playing football in a very small room with a leering man-child? Do you like the line "I gotta go see Michelle in a little bit, to make out with her"? Do you want to watch The Room, much like famous celebrity Paul Rudd? Well. If you're holding this paper on Wednesday, November 4, The Room is playing this very night (Historic University Theater, 7 pm); and if you're not, it's playing again at Central Cinema on January 11. (The Room is also available on Netflix, but it really deserves to be seen drunk with a throng of like-minded trash lovers. Trust in this.)

The overwhelming feeling, when one begins watching The Room, is the following: "Gosh, Lord Jesus, I hope never to see that man's waxy, naked buttocks as he thrusts carnally into a blond woman's belly button whilst sometimes rubbing a red rose on her left boob to the overdubbed sounds of his sexual and slightly French man-groans. To avoid this terrible fate, I would pretty much do anything, Lord Jesus. Including sexual things. As long as the sexual things do not involve Tommy Wiseau's penis. Thanks! LYLAS! Amen. This is Lindy, by the way."

Well, guess what, suckers? There's no such thing as Jesus (or elves, or dinosaurs!), and prayer is a crock of shit. Also, it's just nothingness when you die. LYLAS! Go see The Room.