Shit, Actually: The Definitive, 100% Objective Guide to Modern Cinema

by Lindy West

Maverick and Goose feel the need, the need for speed, but I wish they would feel the need for weed and maybe take a nap once in a while?

If they recut Top Gun with Maverick edited out, it would be a gorgeous short film about sunsets and friendship. Petition to recut real life with all Mavericks edited out.

An old lady recognizes her boob-doodle on the news and goes to visit Bill Paxton on James Cameron’s rock-and-roll treasure boat, where they make her watch a gruesome CGI reenactment of the Titanic sinking (I believe the working title is Hey, Granny, Fuck Your PTSD). Then she tells her story, which is extremely not pertinent to treasure-hunting, unless by treasure you mean three hours of nonsense, garbage, terror, death, and Italian stereotypes.

Yes. Because generations of imprisonment, rape, and violently coerced labor are just like having to marry Billy Zane and live in a fur-lined bon-bon palace.

(Also, it’s 1912 right now, which means that real slavery has only been over for like…fifty years? Maybe a little too soon for the flippant slavery metaphors?)

Nobody notices me! Everyone is so fake! My polo horse is the wrong color! As you can see, Kate Winslet’s life is just like slavery. She decides to just kill herself immediately so she doesn’t have to face another terrible, terrible cotillion.

After dinner, Leonardo says, “Time for me to go row with the other slaves!” Again with the slave thing. PLEASE READ A BOOK.

I think my feelings about The Santa Clause can best be summed by this (100 percent true) sentence: it took me literally an entire day to get through this ninety-minute movie because I kept getting pleasantly distracted by YouTube videos of farmers lancing cow abscesses. Happy holidays!

I feel like in the ’90s people were always answering the phone while they were having sex. I remember watching movies as a kid and thinking, like, three out of four adults were probably secretly having sex when you talked to them on the phone! Honestly, I’m still not sure this isn’t true! It puts me constantly on edge! This is why I only text!

But remember 2003, though, when girls wore those miniskirts that were like six floaty napkins stapled to a scrunchie, with perhaps an Edwardian waistcoat sewn of cobwebs as a top? Where at any moment a baby’s sneeze across campus might expose Kaylee’s entire bunghole and even the slouchy Western belt she wore over her three layers of different-colored camisoles couldn’t save her?

I DO NOT KNOW WHY OR HOW THIS ROBOT LOVES THIS TERRIBLE LITTLE BOY, BUT IT KINDLES IN ME A HOPE THAT ONE DAY WE MAY LOVE ONE ANOTHER AND OURSELVES.

If you want a really good “mochaccino,” you gotta go outside the city limits to Red State Real America because they’re using heavy whipping cream, they’re giving you 128 ounces of it, and they’re sticking Almond Joys and Oreos and whole cherry pies and other smaller mochaccinos on top, hail Satan.