In which Jason reviews the trailer for Sound of My Voice, a movie about a journalist and his girlfriend who get pulled in while they investigate a cult whose leader claims to be from the future.
Women. When are we going to stop losing our men to beautiful cult leaders who say they’re from the future?! Well, not our men, per say. I don’t have any men to speak of. Or women. I’m sure I could, if I worked at it. Oh, I could have a whole line of women at my door, holding flowers, on bended knee. They had better bend their knees. If I see any straightened knees, I’m calling the whole thing off! Don’t make me break out the protractor, hypothetical lady-suitors. I wonder what made them fall in love with me. Probably my braggadocio, and my hubris.
I’d greet all the women from my balcony, like Madonna’s Evita, or like a man testing the structural integrity of a balcony, because I’d be stomping around. People don’t stomp around enough, in my opinion. That’s what boots are made for, am I right? Nancy Sinatra, you big dummy. You had no idea what you were talking about. These boots are made for stomping, and that’s just what they’ll do. You know what? I bet the reason all those women fell in love with me is because of my amazing boots. Puss in Boots, they’d call me. Because I am an incredible coward. Can I confess something to you, women? I’m afraid of my boots. I’m afraid of their leathery scent. I’m afraid of their dusty spurs.
So, I’d come out to my balcony, literally shaking in my boots, and I’d say, “Kiss my grits!” And all the women would leave, because nothing turns a woman off like a man who quotes the character Flo from the 1980’s waitress-centric sitcom Alice and is afraid of his own boots. Just ask any cowboy. Or any waitress. And if you can somehow find a cowboy waitress, raise your bowl of grits in a toast, and kiss them. Then kiss the toast. Try to kiss all the breakfast foods, if you can. Some say if you kiss a plate of hash browns and say his name three times, Richard Petty will appear and grant you a wish, or a commemorative plate.
Anyway, at the very least, I’d know that my balcony was made of sturdy lumber and quality materials. Because it didn’t collapse under the weight of me, or my boots, or my heavy, heavy heart, now that all my imaginary women have left me.
Do you know how I know that the charismatic cult leader woman in Sound of My Voice is not a time traveler? Because you don’t have to travel through time to get the ball rolling on a crazy cult. There have always been lunatics willing to wear robes and live on a carrot farm and not bathe and pray to your many-tentacled all-seeing carrot god, throughout history. A cult is something you can start at any time, no matter what year it is, like a balcony fire for the insurance money, or a boot fire to destroy your mortal enemy, the boot.
Women, can I leave you with a word of advice? Don’t let some skank from the future steal your man. Just because you’re laying in a coffin in her time doesn’t mean she gets to be laying on your boyfriend in yours. Take it from me, Puss in Boots. No bitch from 3022 is going to creep on your boo! In retrospect, that situation did not require a rhyming slogan. Regardless, watch your back, time-traveling ho’s.