GUESTBREAKER: You Made Me Watch The Love Guru
There may be an alternate universe in which Michael Meyers cured cancer, shits cold fusion and invented a machine that emits mouth-based force fields to give the entire human race warm, diligently administered blow jobs twenty four hours a day. From his mouth drop golden words so poetic they inspire mankind to peace and render all of religion, philosophy and strife obsolete with their undeniable profundity. Even people in this universe kind of want to kick Michael Meyers in the taint because of The Love Guru.
There are bad movies. There are movies that challenge the human brain’s maximum threshold for putrid agony. Theoretically, with the advent of human cloning or CGI, we may some day have movies where everyone is played by Paris Hiltons and hideous hydras with the drooling heads of Andy Dick, Pauly Shore and three Nicholas Cages. These movies will have an evil power, and instead of calling them “movies” people will call them “FuckSorcerors” and they will be feared like brainless two-dimensional demons. But these movies will not be as bad as The Love Guru.
I could handle a lot. I could handle the mild racism, the hatred of everything I believe in and am, even the lack of enamel on your teeth. Your rear end was shapely and you bought nice cigars. Sometimes you even smiled, some facsimile of human affection accidentally arranging itself in your yellow mouth. One time you managed to look at me without looking like you wanted to throw up. I appreciate that. It made me feel like some day, even I could be as good as scum.
But as we lay there on the floor of your dorm room, Michael Meyers farting out of his mouth in an attempt at an Indian accent so painful it might have been counted as a hate crime, I could only hope that maybe in a past life I had molested enough orphans to deserve this. I pitied every one of their sad eyes. But I couldn’t focus on my transgressions for too long, because somehow in the nuclear blast of anti-humor that was cancering at us from Austin Powers’ dead eye sockets, you managed to choke out a laugh. My brain blue-screened. For a horrible moment, I thought you might have been amused. That your brain might have been so fundamentally at odds with the rest of reality that you could plausibly said to be an unperson. Or perhaps merely suffering from the comedic equivalent of an aneurysm, or better yet, just a normal aneurysm.
Alas, it was not to be. Something cold wriggled around my heart as I began to understand your laughter, as the glint in your eye became real. You weren’t laughing with the movie, you were laughing at the fact that you had forced me to experience it. You had broken me. You had won. In this moment, Mike Meyers joined you in laughter, and I knew that reality had conspired against me. The sham of life had been exposed, and never again could I be happy knowing such evil lurked in this universe. Meaning, pleasure, even the language of the soul itself were shattered and replaced with tears and brokenness.
An Anonymous Guest Dealbreaker