Mike White
Mike is a large, Nordic looking kinda guy, and arguably my best and oldest friend (despite my poor communcation skills). In any case, I want to use this space here to tell a brief story that'll help you understand what kind of a guy he really is. And no, it isn't a drugs 'n fuckin' story, or the time that he cut me, or the time that time in Montreal. This is a story about a movie.
See, Mike and I used to watch a lot of movies. In fact, it sorta defines my memories of being at home-- if we were there, we were watching movies. And when I say "we," I mean it; the fucker basically lived at my house. This particular day in my memory stands out, however. We had gone to see "Patch Adams," a movie that defies description. It has Robin Williams playing a med student, right? Except, somehow he has time to dress up like a clown and do his mork and mindy act for retarded kids or something.
So Mike and I watch the movie, right? We leave the theater in silence, walking quickly to (I think) Mike's menstrual blood colored Pontiac Bonnevile. I figure that we are both so mad we paid money for such a turd of a movie that we were speechless. I mean, c'mon. It was fucking PATCH ADAMS. We get in the car, and Mike sits there for a moment, before sticking the key in the ignition. Then he turns to me, and says:
"I could go right back in there, and watch that again. That's how good that movie was."
And he was serious.
Love you, Mike.
See, Mike and I used to watch a lot of movies. In fact, it sorta defines my memories of being at home-- if we were there, we were watching movies. And when I say "we," I mean it; the fucker basically lived at my house. This particular day in my memory stands out, however. We had gone to see "Patch Adams," a movie that defies description. It has Robin Williams playing a med student, right? Except, somehow he has time to dress up like a clown and do his mork and mindy act for retarded kids or something.
So Mike and I watch the movie, right? We leave the theater in silence, walking quickly to (I think) Mike's menstrual blood colored Pontiac Bonnevile. I figure that we are both so mad we paid money for such a turd of a movie that we were speechless. I mean, c'mon. It was fucking PATCH ADAMS. We get in the car, and Mike sits there for a moment, before sticking the key in the ignition. Then he turns to me, and says:
"I could go right back in there, and watch that again. That's how good that movie was."
And he was serious.
Love you, Mike.
posted by Dr. Sun Si Miao at 4:34 AM
1 Comments:
it's not my fault your parents hired that clown on your 7th birthday. it's not my fault you were left alone with him for an hour. it's also not my fault that your life revolves around misery and suffering. maybe you should stick some needles in your brain to rewire it correctly.
love you too asshole.
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