J: In The Hunter, Willem Dafoe plays a mercenary who is hired to go into the Tasmanian wilderness to track a tiger believed to be extinct. I guess it really is true what they say about the wealthy, they’ll do anything to get their hands on exotic frosted flakes. Looks like at some point in the movie, Willem Dafoe finds a skull on the ground and picks it up. I dated a girl who kept a human skull on her writing desk. Her father found it on a pile of skeletons in Colombia and snuck it back into the United States. Sorry about ending up in a mass grave, Colombian skeleton. Hope your skull enjoys listening to Robbie Williams and watching Billy Elliot on my ex-girlfriend’s laptop.
K: It seems like part of the way through the movie, some guys start chasing Dafoe and trying to keep him from hunting that tiger. That’s when I figured that somebody probably had to be talked down to the title “The Hunter,” because I bet they wanted to call it “The Hunter Becomes the Hunted,” or just “Becomes the Hunted,” or just “Becomes,” because it’s one of those complicated movies with laurels on the poster, so you know they would’ve liked to make it as esoteric as possible. But then I got to thinking, the tiger has been out there hunting smaller animals, so maybe the hunter had already became the hunted anyway. And maybe the smaller animals are also hunting grass. It would’ve been a different movie if they just shifted the focus one hunter to the left. The tiger could’ve grabbed Willem Dafoe by the collar and growled, “Is someone paying you to follow me?” They could probably still have had laurels, as long as they didn’t get the Dreamworks animators involved.
J: Speaking of the hunter becoming the hunted, I ate three different types of chicken today. Grilled chicken. Fried chicken. Chicken tenders. It was an excessive amount of chicken. I hope those chickens never get their act together up in chicken heaven and come over to regular person heaven to confront me when I die. I guess “being confronted” isn’t really what heaven is all about. Unless that’s what you’re into. Maybe someone is spending an eternity right now being constantly called out on their bullshit. Glad it’s not me. Please don’t call me on my bullshit, angels and other residents of heaven. Definitely not what I want.
Anyway, chickens, if you’re somehow reading this, possibly through the wire of your chicken coop as a well-meaning but ultimately misguided farmer holds up a laptop so you can enjoy articles from the internet and maybe lay better tasting eggs, I apologize.
K: I bet there are more people than you think in Getting Called Out On Your Bullshit Heaven. Because even heaven has a rule 34. It’s probably the only rule, though, so they could’ve named it better.