©2008 Big Empire Industries and Randy Shandis Enterprises
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This week:
Harold and Kumar 2

Filthy says:
"Dude, getting stgoned is so way original."

I never would want to be the one who starts a war between the drunks and the stoners. I mean, I chose my path and I know it's the better of the two. Alcohol is like nectar of the gods, and it lets you feel high and low, sometimes at the same time. Sometimes you want it to lift your spirits, but instead it brings you down. Sometimes you want to mellow out with a pint of cough syrup, but you end up so amped you jump into the creek and break your leg on a submerged rock. Whatever, alcohol has the magical ability to know exactly what you need better than you do. Pot, on the other hand, is like a deep and sad fog you have to fight through. I'm proud to be a drunk, but I'm not ashamed to slum it with the dope every now and then. Like when I have to see a big ol' pile of shit like Harold and Kumar 2. It's got some longer title, but I got a lot of shit to say, so I'm not wasting words on it.

To make the experience complete, I got totally stoned before I watched Harold and Kumar 2. I bought some weed off Shifty, a fifty-year-old man who lives with his mom down the street. In addition to his entrepreneurial spirit, he's also a busybody and a peeping tom, so he and I know each other pretty well. Most nights when I'm stumbling back from the Tavern, he's out prowling through the neighbor's gardens and checking for unlocked doors. I bought the pot off him, I got some newspaper and I rolled myself as big a joint as $4 worth of pot allows (Hint, it looks bigger if you wad up some extra newspaper). I lit up, kicked back in one of Mrs. Minstrel's adirondack chair and got toasted. I mean, my head was a hazy cloud of happiness with my brain buzzing around in it. I threw up, then I went to the Olde Town Cinema and got in line behind others buying tickets for Harold and Kumar.

I bet they were stoned, too. Man, you should have seen them, they were so damn funny, all fat and skinny and some of them wearing different colors, like this big patchouli oil rainbow. We were all there to enhance our drug with cheap jokes and lazy hijinks. I felt, for once, like a part of a community. These were my brothers and sisters. I knew they were siblings because looking at the girls didn't even make me horny. It just made me feel warm. And funny.

The popcorn stand was hilarious. There was like people standing in line and then the people working behind the counter were all "Derrr, you want some butter?" I don't know. It's hard to explain but it was so fucking funny. plus, the sodas were all different colors, even yellow, like pee! Awesome!

That made me start thinking about taking a piss, so I went into the men's room and stood there. I didn't need to pee, though. Man, when I realized that, I nearly fell over laughing. When I did, this other guy starts busting up. It was so freakin' hilarious. I'm looking at him and he's looking at me and we're both saying "What the fuck, dude?" I laughed so damn hard that now I really did need to pee. The actual urination wasn't that funny. Pretty standard, actually.

I settled in in the last row of the lower section, which is pretty much reserved for loners who go to the movies by themselves. This time, though, still warm from the dope, I didn't think the other guys hunkered down in their jackets were losers and assholes. I felt they were my brothers in pot-dom. They weren't freaks with no lives; they were dudes who liked a good smoke and a bad movie. I felt that way about everyone in the theater, man. I loved those fuckers in the upper seats, the stupid obnoxious teens with their lit-up cell phones, and the guys in the long heavy jackets who play grabass and catcall at the girls. We all liked smoking dope!

I couldn't wait for that movie to start. I was excited for the communal experience, of sharing a laugh and giggling knowingly at the pot humor. Through the haze in my mind, and over the urge to go get the biggest damn tub of popcorn the Olde Town has, I settled in and waited anxiously.

The previews fucking slayed me. Have you seen the one about the monkey? Oh, fuck, that one's awesome. That little primate farts and everything. I also liked the one about the girl who falls in love with the wrong guy, only to realize too late (or maybe not) that Mr. Right was beside her all along. I thought I was gonna cry. I hope that fucker gets boned by the right dude.

Finally, after all that waiting and all that anticipation, and my dope high fading into a buzz with a hint of headache, Harold and Kumar 2 began. I don't remember a god damn thing about it. I'm pretty sure it sucked, though.

I'm not high anymore. And I'm back to hating those fucking pot-smoking losers. Get a God damn life, assholes. If you think smoking dope is one of your more interesting traits, you're a fucking loser. If you want alife, drink booze.

Want to tell Filthy Something?



Roger Moore of the Orlando Sentinel

Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden is "Four stars! Sassy, smart and cutting! Morgan Spurlock shows guts finding answers that surprise him, and almost certainly will surprise you, too."

Wait, so are you saying the filmmaker is more likely to surprise himself than the audience? Oh, shit, that's bad.

Filthy's Reading
Frank Portman - King Dork

Listening to
Sonic Youth - Dirty


River's Edge