Last night I decided to go check out the new Iron Man movie, in celebration of the re-launching of this wondrous shithole site. You see, as a child my favorite superhero just so happened to be the armored Avenger. Now obviously the many booze-soaked and drug-laced years of college have clouded my memory enough that I can’t remember why I liked Iron Man. I don’t know; maybe I somehow desired to be a rich alcoholic. If that’s the case, though, it looks like I’m halfway there.

Anyway, it’s a Thursday night, and I’m going to see a recently-released movie in Plano, Texas. Shall I hop over to the Cinemark down the road, amidst the flurry of raucous kids, unhindered by their parents’ watchful eyes? My movie going experience ruined by some little shits who’re more concerned with impressing their faggot friends than watching a film that cost $135 million dollars to make? Yeah, fuck that. There’s only one place I go to these days when I can’t wait to see a movie at home, the Studio Movie Grill. Frankly, I’ve noticed people have a tendency to behave themselves more when they’re shelling out more money for the theater experience. Also I generally buy a bucket of Coronas for myself, and after a couple of those bad boys I could care less about my noisy surroundings.

So there I was, the aforementioned beer before me, coupled with a plate of hot wings, potato skins, and hot buttered popcorn, and the film begins. I will say this, if you’re looking for anything other than nostalgic fun, you’re going to find yourself sorely disappointed in this movie. It’s merely a thrill-a-minute CG-fest with some well-executed comedy by Robert Downey, Jr. (who still looks like he might dabble in sucking his coke dealer off.) And the idea of getting Jeff Daniels to play the bad guy was brilliant, since I can’t stand the guy. Well, except for The Big Lebowski. Oh, and Tron. Okay, maybe I DO like the guy, but he still sounds like he’s got a mouth full of shit when he talks.

I will say this, be sure you stick around for after the credits. I suggest you kick yourself if you don’t.

The next morning I awoke with that old familiar feeling. I don’t know why I get the occasional sliver-shits. Perhaps it’s somewhere between a healthy, solid dump and hangover shits. All I know is my brown kisser’s doing a little Jap-eye action or something. But that nasty motherfucker Marc insists I document these daily ass-foibles, so here it goes. I guess the REAL question is, how do you categorize something like this?

Regrets (and potato skins,) I’ve had a few…

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