Was dating in the 80’s so difficult that women had to resort to witchcraft? I guess being a modern single lady isn’t so bad after all!
Lighting a fire in a brazier and blowing on a bag of feathers while listing qualities you’re looking for in a boyfriend might seem like a less painful process than signing up for a Match.com profile, but at least you don’t run the risk of accidentally summoning the devil every time you try to find someone to watch Orange Is the New Black with.
Like most cauldron-based dating, things do not go well for Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer and Susan Sarandon in The Witches of Eastwick.
You know what this movie needs? A scene at the end where an out-of-breath Channing Tatum runs up to the witches and says, “Hey, it’s me—the handsome man with nice eyes you wished for. Sorry I’m late, I ran all the way here from the future. What? The devil?! No, that was a coincidence.
How were you supposed to know?? What made you think that a middle-aged, balding Jack Nicholson was the answer to your prayers? He was wearing a silk shirt. He had a ponytail!”
Sorry, witches of the 1980’s. This is why Channing Tatum doesn’t run backwards in time whenever you cast spells looking for Mr. Right—because your taste in men is terrible.
Case in point: I wore a silk shirt and ponytail to my homecoming dance in 1995 and got freak danced by at least three different girls in Black Bart Simpson shirts.
You think Jack Nicholson gets freak danced in 2013? Hell no! Not even when Cher accidentally summons him trying to change her e-mail address on JDate.
Come to think of it, how many times were you freak danced this year, Nick?
It would be easier to count the days wherein I wasn’t freak danced upon, sir. It’s just been a grinding year.
And I swear I would stop showing up at Cher’s home in my silk pajamas if the song “Life After Love” played backwards didn’t explicitly say- verbatim- “Nicholas Tecosky, this is Cher speaking directly to you. Please show up at 9:00pm Tuesday at my personal residence, and wear that shiny lavender number that shows off your pecks. This is not a joke please get here.”
And so there I am, every Tuesday night like clockwork, and her bodyguard is always like *punch* and then there I am, bloodied and paying another dry cleaning bill because it is impossible to get that shit out of silk.
Here’s what it comes down to: Cher sends mixed signals. It’s not like when Michelle Pfeiffer planted that subliminal in the trailer to White Oleander. I showed up and she was happy to see me, and there was pie as promised. Get your shit together, Cher, or you’ll never know if there’s life after love because you will never know love. Nobody will want to get close enough.
Except Jack Nicholson, but let’s be honest: What else is he doing these days? Bucket List 2?
When I was in 6th grade, my friend Billy threw out all his Damn Yankees cassette tapes because his pastor said there were backwards Satanic messages on them.
Billy and I used to sit on the bus and try to figure out what the best possible final sexual position would be, if you died from having sex. It’s with you laying on top of a lady with your face buried in her breasts and your hands on her butt, in case you’re wondering.
Considering how much we talked about it, maybe that pastor was on to something, and we really were under the influence of a Satanic message hidden in the music of American hard rock supergroup Damn Yankees. Like, “Hey kids, make sure when you die, you’re touching the most butt” or something along those lines.
That sounds like something the Devil would say, right? I guess if Ted Nugent dies nose-deep in boobs with his bony hands clutching some poor woman’s rear end, you’ll know he was taking advice from his own Satanically backmasked music.
I wonder if Billy listens to any Damn Yankees on Spotify these days. He probably feels pretty foolish for throwing those tapes out. Maybe he kept his soul untainted by the Devil’s filthy backwards-speak after all these years. Or maybe he actually died doing the face-in-cleavage/hands-on-ass combo. In which case: you did it, buddy!
What’s the Devil’s arrangement with Spotify, anyway? They only pay artists around $0.004 per stream, do they pay the Devil 0.004% of a soul every time someone is led into sin by the Damn Yankees’ “High Enough?”
I guess the Internet’s making it tough for anybody to make a profit, even the Prince of Darkness. He probably shouldn’t have wasted all that time fucking around with subliminal messages.
Is Spotify sitting on a big pile of souls right now, like in a Ghostbusters-style containment unit in their basement? Does 0.004% of my soul get added in there every time I listen to Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines?” Now there’s a man who’s probably going to die having sex—most likely in a position Billy and I never could have thought of.
What about you, Nick? What percentage of your soul is in the Spotify soul vault?
I am not actually on Spotify, so the Devil is going to have to find some other way to worm his way in. I am likewise not engaged on Pinterest, Klout, or Foursquare, and only use to Twitter to share with the world how clever I am, which may account for my lack of followers. I have a very complicated relationship with Facebook. Though it becomes less complicated with each year, in those horrid days just after the VMAs when everybody suddenly and inexplicably finds themselves shocked at whatever pop starlet du jour has decided to shake her bottom in underwear.
BOTTOM? SHAKING? UNDERWEAR? I NEVER. I NEVER.
If the Devil is tied up in that, he’s doing a terrible job of convincing me to hand over my soul. You don’t get people to give you things by annoying them. Annoying the hell out of them. Out of hell. See what I’m trying to do there? It’s clumsy. But I am clumsy. A clumsy luddite who is not at all surprised at what pop starlets do in front of cameras.
To tell you the truth, I don’t think that the Devil is particularly interested in my soul at this point. Is it really that much of a catch? I tried to make a Match.com profile for my soul and received no bites. Perhaps I should have put “quietly sobbing” down a little further on my list of interests. It currently holds the top three spots.
Maybe the Devil isn’t into quietly sobbing. Or maybe he is just being coy. How will I know if he really loves me?
I totally get it, Nick. You’re asking yourself, “How will I know if he’s thinking of me?” You try to phone but you’re too shy (Can’t speak).
When I realized you were bringing up the Miley Cyrus VMA thing in an article that won’t be read for at least another week or two, my first instinct was to e-mail you and say, “Ixnay on the dated pop culture eferencesray!” Although, if I may give my two cents about Miley’s performance, I think a nice touch would have been if the anthropomorphic dancing bears had been Teddy Ruxpin dolls, and then Miley could have brought out an oversized cassette tape of Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines,” and all the music would have come out of Teddy Ruxpin’s robotic jaws as he twerked robotically.
That’s the real design flaw in Teddy Ruxpin, if you ask me. The engineers spent no time whatsoever enhancing his robotic butt, thereby guaranteeing his obsolescence. He’s unable to keep up with the modern twerking bears of today!
But then I realized what we have here is a golden opportunity, Nick.
People will be so sick of reading about Miley twerkin it, they’ll never read past the paragraph I just wrote! The words “Miley Cyrus,” and “VMA,” and “twerk” (and, let’s be honest, “Teddy Ruxpin”) will trigger an automatic shutdown of their pre-frontal cortex and the rest of our words will just glide off their brain like a young starlet’s booty off of Robin Thicke’s Hamburglar-striped crotch.
We can write whatever we want, Nick. We have total autonomy! It’s the internet equivalent of a confessional booth, but not even God is paying attention. You could post a picture of your boner if you wanted, and yet if there was a formal Congressional hearing tomorrow on whether or not you even have a penis, nobody would know where to find the photographic evidence.
You yourself will have forgotten your own (magnificent, I’m sure) boner pic, because that’s how fucking unlikely this thing is to be remembered by anyone, ever. It’s a review of a movie trailer for the Witches of Eastwick, for Christ’s sake. Obama could put his nuclear launch codes in the comments section and feel totally safe about it. It’s N-I-C-K-S-B-O-N-E-R, by the way.
Here, I’ll go first. When I was thirteen, I pretended to be interested in Nancy Drew so I could filibuster my hot step-cousin into hanging around by the lake in a bikini instead of going back inside to watch Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins, which she’d recorded off a rental tape, because her family had two VCR’s, which back then was some millionaire shit.
Am I proud of Franklin W. Dixon-ing her out of a quality afternoon of action–adventure-thriller films so I could squeeze in just a few more minutes of ogling? No. I am not. But I say, let he who is without a confusingly-attractive second, third, or step cousin cast the first hardcover Hardy Boys mystery.
What about you, Nick? Got any skeletons in the closet you’d like to unburden yourself of?
I’m asking you what you know about these things.
I do, Mallory. I have plenty of them. But unlike [further reference to Miley Cyrus redacted due to obsolescence], I’m able to keep my dirty laundry in my britches, so to speak. There’s only one being that I’ve told my secrets to at this point; she was a seemingly perfect, silent vessel to receive my darkest side: my dog.
Though there have been some deeply troubling signs of late that maybe she’s turned– for instance, last week, in the evening, after I refused to let her out at midnight and further berated her for knocking over her food bowl, I woke the next morning to find a can of Bush’s baked beans sitting on the pillow next to me, wrapped in a picture of my high school girlfriend, whom I cheated on. I ignored it- hey, these things happen- except that the next morning, after yelling at her to get off the couch, there was another can. This time, with my phone bill on it, a series of 900 numbers crudely circled in red ink.
And there she sat, at the edge of the bed, eyes blazing into my soul. And I knew that she was capable of bringing me down. And she knew that I knew. And so I took her on a series of pleasant walks, and let her shit where she wanted, and started buying the good dog food. The kind with Salmon in it.
Not to mention the constant entreaties to “roll that beautiful bean footage.”
There’s an uneasy peace in my house, now. My secrets are safe, I think, as long as she gets what she wants out of me. But it has become taxing. I can only throw a ball so many times before my arms give out. And they’re sore, Jason. So very sore.
How long can this go on? She’s six years old. How many more years can I do this? How long do big dogs usually live? Why couldn’t I have just confessed my sins to the world? Yes, I would surely be shunned. But anything is better than this hell.
I made a deal with the wrong Devil. At least Nicholson had a sense of humor.
The Witches of Eastwick was released in theaters on June 12, 1987.