Here are my three favorite things about Leprechaun 3 (the one in Vegas, not to be confused with Leprechaun 4: In Space, Leprechaun 5: In the Hood, and Leprechaun 6: Back 2 tha Hood (I kid you not)):
1. All of the extras, including the guy sleeping on the table during the magic show, the fourteen-year-old girl dressed like Michael Caine in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the lady in the wheelchair with the oxygen tank playing slots, and yes, even you Saggy-skinned Elderly Man in the Sparkly Cocktail Dress and Naughty Red Lipstick.
2. The extraordinarily uneven knockers on the porno robot.
3. The simple fact that a movie about a flesh-hungry leprechaun rampaging through Vegas could be produced during the same year as Toy Story and Leaving Las Vegas and yet have the special effects of the original Godzilla and the screenwriting of Days of Our Lives.
I could go on.
Three cheers for Leprechaun 3!
Happy St. Patty’s Day!
Here’s a bit of a moral dilemma for you to ponder:
Last week we went to that bastion of all things flash frozen, Trader Joe’s. After unloading the groceries, I pulled the shopping cart back to the cart station in the parking lot (I pull the cart behind me with one finger because actually driving the cart from behind like a normal person makes me feel like a soccer mom; ick). There at the cart station I noticed one cart with a box of Charles Shaw wine (a.k.a. Two-buck Chuck) on the bottom shelf. I poked at it with a finger, trying to determine if it was empty, still packed with wine bottles, or teeming with live rats. Much to my delight, it was not full of live rats, but kittens! Just kidding. It was just wine bottles.
Me: Wanna take it?
Ethan: (looking at me like I’ve just asked him to help me drown a box full of kittens) No!
Me: Why not? It’s just going to sit there. If we don’t take it, someone else will.
Ethan: But what if the person who bought it comes back for it?
Me: Someone else will take it before that happens. It will either be us or someone else.
Ethan: But we didn’t pay for it. That’s stealing.
Me: No, it’s not; it’s already been paid for. It’s like finding a $100 bill on the sidewalk. Sure, the person who lost it might come back for it, but chances are that if you leave it there, someone else will pick it up first. And they might use it for eeeeeevil rather than good.
Ethan: I don’t know…
Me: If you really wanted to do the right thing, you’d take it back into the store.
Ethan: (noncommittal) Yeah…
Me: Oh, so you’re not trying to be a good citizen, you’re just too lazy to go back and get it. (At this point we’re out of the parking lot and about two blocks away.)
Ethan: I guess it’s okay.
Me: Of course it is.
Ethan: (turning the car around) How are we ever going to drink all that?
Me: We should go home and drink it all tonight. That’ll teach us not to steal.
Now here’s the moral question I pose to you, dear readers: Should we have taken the box of wine or left it for someone else because, at the rate we drink it, we’ll still have some left for our 75th wedding anniversary? Shouldn’t it have gone to a needy vinophile instead of two coke addicts (drinky, not snorty)?
So there I am, skiing along. Everyone in our group has made it down the hill ahead of me and they’re standing in a clump at the bottom. It’s the last run of the day and I’m feeling strong. I’m making like Picabo, swish swish, my Chapsticked lips shimmering in the late afternoon sun. My hams are taught like Seabiscuit’s. My form? Well, it’s splendid, that’s what it is.
And then, out of nowhere comes Flailing Lady, flailing herself very unladylike into the back of my splendid form. And in the time it takes my lips to form the words “You stupid biatch,” we’re a mass of arms and legs and long, hard slabs of metal-edged fiberglass technologically engineered to do things like “slice” and “carve.”
Were we hurt? Well, she was after I punched her in the face*, but I was fine. I’d had the wind knocked out of me and I was a little shaken and rage-crazy, but all the important parts were intact. (Everyone at the bottom of the hill, however, thought I’d busted my femur since it took me ten minutes to get one ski back on due to the fact that I can’t click up my bindings because I have the upper-body strength of an six-month-old with no arms.)
Back at the cabin, I’m changing out of my sport garb into my sloth garb when I notice I have a GINORMOUS black bruise on my thigh. It’s about three inches long and an inch and a half wide, roughly the length of an insurance card and about the width of, oh, I don’t know, a ski? There’s a big lump underneath it and a string of smaller bruises running the ten inches down to my knee, where another lump and blue-black bruise are; if you can teach kids about peninsulas using Dave Letterman’s hairdo, they can learn all about archipelagos on my pasty white thigh.
When I say this bruise is black, I mean black, like tar or Mel Gibson’s soul. When I first looked at it I was understandably grossed out, but also understandably eager to share my injury with our housemates once we were gathered around the dinner table eating lasagna. (Yes, I’m one of those people.) By morning it was purple. The next day, blue. By Wednesday it was about to turn the corner from green to yellow and the lump was finally going down. It was a kaleidoscope of ever-changing hues–only more painful. I’ve spent hours staring at it. I’ve spent hours making other people stare at it. And yes, I’ve even taken its picture. (This is also your first look at my recently sized engagement ring!)
When we went out to dinner with Teddy earlier this week, the first thing I did when I got in his car was hike up my skirt to show him my bruise (calm down; it’s not that far up my leg!). I was all prepared to tell him the story of how such grave misfortune befell me, how I played the proud warrior fighting back tears in the face of excruciating torture. But before I could even begin, he pointed to the back of his neck, where there was a two-inch-long cut, swollen like a pink grape and stitched up Frankenstein style. “I got in a bar fight,” he said. And with that, my thunder was stolen. How can anything compete with the coolness that is a bar fight? *fizzle*
*C’mon, would I really do that?