The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones

The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones

In which Jason and Cristen Conger review the trailer for The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones.


Well, Cristen—I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is there’s a race of invisible half-human/half-angels running around killing demons on our behalf. The bad news is, they think we’re totally lame. They even call us “mundanes” behind our back. So catty!

In fact, in their TV Guide’s “Cheers & Jeers” section, us humans always get Jeers. I know that your greatest fear has always been that you’d end up in the Jeers column. I hope you can take some comfort from knowing that nobody reads TV Guide anymore, not even the version published by half-angel demon hunters. Also, every month they inexplicably feature Delta Burke on the cover. We get it—she’s half an angel! But the part of her that played Suzanne Sugarbaker was ALL HUMAN.


I’m bowled over by your insightful connection between TV Guide reviews and the effervescent Ms. Burke because Suzanne Sugarbaker, you see, is fully the human — half-angels aren’t blessed with such voluminous décolletage; it would hamper their flame throwing and demon ass-kicking — embodiment of the Cheer AND the Jeer, the only mortal capable of straddling both ridicule and praise without breaking a sweat. Case in point: Suzanne Sugarbaker didn’t actually go by Suzanne Sugarbaker. Nope, that racially insensitive beauty queen toted around the name Suzanne Sugarbaker Goff Dent Stonecipher acknowledging all three of her failed marriages. She gave not a shit, that Suzanne.

I really wish the Designing Women writers had delved more into the character of Mr. Stonecipher, though. Not that I would ever want the spotlight cast too far away from dear Delta, but with a last name like Stonecipher, I wonder if Suzanne Sugarbaker was last married — and divorced — to some sort of wizard or warlock, not unlike those whom would be hunted down and barbequed to death by a band of Shadowhunters.

And speaking of Shadowhunters, I can’t get that spooky latte art out of my head. That ghoulish face in the cappuccino foam sent shivers down my spine! I tell you what, Jason, if I am ever contacted by half-angels from the other side, it goddamn better be through designs in hot frothed milk. What the hell else could latte art be good for anyway?!

As you can probably tell from my salty language, I get pretty steamed over latte art just like you do. I hope I haven’t hit a nerve by bringing it up.


It’s a slippery slope, Cristen. First you’re getting hot frothed milk messages from half-angels in your latte, then you’re getting steamed e-mails in your chai tea. Before you know it, you can barely pick up a Triple Venti Cappuccino without some dude trying to Skype a dick pic into it (over it? through it?).

I’d like to think that Mr. Stonecipher is the Johnny Appleseed of hyphenated last names, traveling from town to town seducing both designing and non-designing women, planting the “apple seeds” of the Stonecipher name, which then grow into apple-bottomed beauty queen divorcées.

Speaking of marriage and apple seeds, according to Wikipedia Johnny Appleseed refused to marry because “two female spirits would be his wives in the after-life if he stayed single on earth.” I’m sure it had nothing to do with the tin pot he was always wearing on his head.

Threesomes are never worth it, Johnny Appleseed! I hope he at least got some racy photos in his cappuccino foam from those hot angel women. I’d sure hate to think he was gambling his love life on the frontier times equivalent of a “HOT FEMALE SPIRITS ARE LOOKING FOR SEX IN YOUR AREA IF YOU REMAIN CHASTE IN YOUR MORTAL LIFE” web banner.


Jason, I’m going to go ahead and call Johnny Appleseed a capital-C Chump, and not just because he tried to make tin pot hats happen like some fucking Williams-Sonoma of hat fashions. If he had more than apple seeds for a brain, he would’ve know that the only dude in history to successfully turn ridiculous headgear into a cultural icon was Davy Crockett and his coonskin hat. And Samuel L. Jackson with his backward Kangol. Which makes me wonder: Is it possible to wear a Kangol FRONTWARD?

No, the real reason Johnny Appleseed was such foolhardy dope was — and I hope this doesn’t sound culturally insensitive here, because I don’t mean it to be, I swear — is that he didn’t realize he could’ve had his cake on earth and eaten it too in heaven (vaginal metaphor, there, you’re welcome.) if he had simply converted to Islam. Yes, I’m talking about that ol’ 72 virgins thing, which, truth be told so that I don’t sound so much like an ignorant caucasian, doesn’t literally mean 72 virgins.

Rather, it’s meant to imply that if you’re real good on planet earth, you’ll have all the tender lovin you could ask for in heaven. Now, I’d personally have no use for 72 virgins in heaven, Jason, since guys only last, like, 2 seconds their first time, which means that I’d get my kicks in a couple hours and then would have to spend eternity with a pack of dudes who won’t shut up about how terrible they feel about being such fast lays, but still, it could’ve been a much different story for Johnny Appleseed had he only picked up a copy of the Quran during his frontier travels.

And speaking of feeling terrible, I’m now a bit conflicted having just argued in favor of holding out for 72 virgins, considering how the whole concept of sexual purity has fucked (figuratively) women throughout the ages. Holy shit, does this mean I’m not a feminist?


I hate to be the one to tell you, Cristen, but you’re pretty much responsible for all of feminism’s setbacks since the early 1980’s. You and you alone. We were going to have a utopian society until this review of The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones trailer, now I guess we’ll just have to revert to the misogynistic world of Mad Men. At least we’ll always have Jon Hamm to boss us around.

Who’s responsible for counting all the virgins in heaven? Is there some kind of virgin-sorting machine, like those bill counters at the bank? I wonder if anyone’s ever been swindled by a counterfeit virgin, a Canadian penny of the sexually inexperienced.

They probably have some kind of counterfeit detection pen they mark every virgin with. If your virgin has a blue mark on his hand, he might be a forgery. Or he may have just been stamped for re-admittance to Comic-Con. If he’s carrying an anime body pillow, he’s probably an authentic virgin.


Jason, I think you just came up with Hollywood’s next summer comedy blockbuster: Counterfeit Virgin. It’s about a nerdy 20-some who bags a surprising amount of women, considering his constant Doctor Who references, who falls in love with a woman in seminary. And since we know that Christians are all about the purity thing, he naturally assumes that this comely preacher-in-waiting is a virgin, so he pretends to be one in order to make her feel emotionally and physically safe enough to have intercourse after a couple of dinner dates.

But of course, the final twist will come when he, in a post coital reverie no doubt, happens upon her diary in which she details losing “it” (talkin bout ye olde hymen) with some super hot dude. The Counterfeit Virgin then flies into a righteous anger because of sexual double standards and all that jazz. But to keep things light, we have him confront the slutty preacher while he’s still naked to facilitate one of those hilarious butt shots that Will Ferrell does so well.

I’d say we could cast Jonathan Rhys Meyers, aka Valentine Morgenstern from The Mortal Instruments as the star, but judging by that impeccable facial hair in his IMDB headshot, there’s no way the audience would buy that he’s never had gratuitous amounts of sex. Either way, I’m sure Hollywood will be metaphorically having sex with you in no time once you hammer out that Counterfeit Virgin screenplay. And, yes—I do want an executive producer credit.