It wouldn't be a far stretch of the mind to openly admit that The Pilot and myself have different ideas of what a good movie is. For The Pilot a good movie includes explosions and boobies and guns and airplanes and somebody getting kicked in the throat.
My idea of a good movie? It's got to play in our DVD player. I have no standards for movies -- zip, zilch, Nada. You just made a movie that involves your kitty cat using the litter box fifty-six times, heck yes I'll watch it! Probably twice because it's a moving picture on my teletube and if that isn't better then sliced corn I don't know what is!
It's because of our different tastes that I believe I'm eventually going to drive The Pilot insane and end up cut up in a body bag hidden in his freezer.
I make him watch bad movies. Movies so bad you can hear the brain melting in your skull. Having a small furry creature shove red hot chili peppers up your butt hole would be better then watching the movies I pick. They are literally that bad.
And he watches them. I'd like to think he watches them with me because he's utterly and totally in love with me but the truth is closer to the fact that I forcefully hold him down and pry his eyelids open so he can watch every amazing second.
This weekend I forced him to watch Mean Girls 2 and Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2. Despite the fact that he proclaimed from high to low that he would never watch BHC 2 I downloaded it. I told him the dog downloaded it and it was our obligation to reward his tech savvy ways with at least watching it.
With much wrestling he agreed.
Twenty minutes into the movie I got mind numbly bored and feigned a potty break. A potty break I never returned from until the movie was ten minutes from the end.
Do you know what I find in the living room upon my return? The Pilot and Dog snuggled up on the couch avidly watching the movie in a sense of nail biting suspense in the hopes everything comes up fine and dandy at the conclusion.
It didn't come over so well when The Pilot realized I had left and that he had, for some reason, allowed himself to get into the movie to the point he couldn't stop watching. Or the fact that I loudly proclaimed that I had ceased to date a man a few months from his thirtieth birthday but a twelve year old girl.
It also didn't help that he proceeded to hide the remotes from me so we couldn't watch anything like this again only to have them found by me twenty minutes before the new episode of Glee aired on Sunday.
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I once punched a baby kitten and then it died of cancer. The punch might have given it cancer. Comment or I'll punch you in the baby-maker.