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Final Destination 2
by Lisa

Some kind of review for: Final Destination 2
by Hatchet

Years before today, somewhere in Brooklyn, in the midst of sex and alcohol-fueled affair, we stopped mauling each other like rabid beavers, just long enough to catch the first of these f*cked up little flicks. I vaguely remember being shushed by some of the fine, urban denizens because while most of these leather-clad greasers were huddling under the wings of their ozone-depleting hairsprayed chickadees, I was laughing my collective ass off. The damn thing was hysterical. Of course, I was also undressing my very excitable date…which could also have been the issue.

See, the rules of theater screwing insist on the theater being mostly empty, a rule I had mostly not given a good damn about at the time, having possibly as much liquor in me at the time as I was planning to do to her. We’d had a dinner of sushi and sake and now it was my turn to once again, sake it to her… if you’ll excuse the brilliant pun. So there I was, watching, if I remember erectly, this little jackass dying in a bathtub because he wasn’t at all smart enough to simply freaking stand up, doing the motorboat on my date’s bare mammarys. You can imagine my happiness in the midst of a combination off all things I love: movies, boobies and booze.

Somewhere around Stifler getting his face sliced off by a randomly flying license plate (or a tag if you’re from Florida – though how much damage a tag can do is beyond me), we were kicked out for indecent exposure and disturbing the peace. (I think her exposure was quite decent and she certainly wasn’t disturbing my piece.) I did at some other point, blitzed to a fine fair-thee-well, catch the rest of the flick enjoying most the kitchen death of the schoolteacher where her blood somehow became explosive like gasoline. She must have been in a similar condition to me. Stick a match up my ass and call me Mr. Molotov.

The plot, I should probably say, makes little or no sense, much like the first, and barely holds together in any form of story-like cohesion… but who am I to say. I felt the same way about Casablanca and the Transformers movie. The only flicks that’ve made any sense to me in the last 10 years were Mulholland Dr. and the ether scenes in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

The free bottle of Wild Turkey they gave me to write this silly crap is almost at an end, so it’s time for me to find a gutter to crawl into somewhere and vibrate like a crack baby, convulsing away to dreams of Brooklyn boobs and sushi. 

Or maybe I’ll just go home and rethink my life.

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