Last night, a filum double-fe–
*I’m interrupting this blog post to bring you an irrelevant newsflash: the guy who just delivered my groceries was Hot. As. Fuck. And smelled incredible. And had a gorgeous nice pretty Nigerian accent. And he bowed to me on his way out, which is outrageous. Since when did Fairway start sending hot men in button-downs wearing Givenchy cologne to deliver groceries? Don’t they know those poor men might get jumped by post-menstrual women?*
–ature: Talladega Nights and Snakes on a Plane.
Ricky Bobby was about as entertaining as I expected it to be. Lots of easy laughs, nothing to write blog about. It weren’t no Elf, if you knows what I means.
The previews were the best part. I’m looking forward to Stranger Than Fiction and The Illusionist, though that less than The Prestige. Two presto-change-o movies, each starring thinking-woman’s beefcake: The Illusionist with Ed Norton, to whom I feel I owe some collegiate allegiance, and The Prestige, with Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman, either of whom I’d lend my loins on little to no notice. Hm. I’ll see both.
Borat looks like seven kinds of hilarity. Sometimes I feel dirty for liking Sacha Baron Cohen so much, but the man is funny, damnit.
Anyway, on to Snakes.
Kidding. I’m not gonna ruin it for y’all. But it was great. Everything I dreamed and more. Plus, having seen it late Thursday night, the theater was full of seeeeerious SOAPheads who were as funny as the film.
I’m off to seal my fate or pursue my destiny or somesuch (read: have a chat with the boss). TTFN.