I’m walking up to the Kentucky Derby gates. A man is selling bootleg T-shirts that read, “I Beat The Pussy Up!”. If you’re going to buy one pussy-centric shirt on your way to the horse race billed as “The Most Important Two Minutes In Sports History”, I don’t think you’re going to find a better offering, unless Cat Fancy Magazine sells shirts at the Derby. Cat Fancy Magazine, you really dropped the ball on this one. And batted it around a little. Next year, I think the T-shirt guy should aim higher, with an “I Beat The Pussy Up!” seersucker suit. He could also sell it to local productions of To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s never too late for a more modern take on Atticus Finch.
K: Hi there, Johnny.
On this preview’s splash page, Morgan Freeman is just the picture of enlightenment. Did you notice that? It’s how he looks in every movie lately, and, frankly, that’s fine with me. I really think that’s how we long to see him: messiah-like and full of joy. Oh yes, he was wronged; he went through hardship in his formative years (see also Attica, Street Smart,) but those experiences burned him clean and touched him with some holy light. He is smiling; we don’t know why. We can’t know why. And of course, to complete this cliché, because a beautiful, clean cliché is what we so desire: We don’t want to. What Morgan Freeman knows is for Morgan Freeman to know. We can only hope he speaks. Prithee, say something, Mr. Freeman. Recite the phonebook, and arrive at my name. Speak to us.