Concessions

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.