Four of Them

I know, what your thinking, dudes, I'm in your mind, I get it. One, yes, the title of this post would make an excellent alterna-rock album name, perhaps accompanied by a picture of a rotten grapefruit or a naked child smiling ironically or something. Two, god, how many bloggers are bitching about what the fucking movie means? Also, I'm almost ninety percent sure I've written something like this a few months ago, if only I weren't too lazy to archive that shit. But, you know what? Half of you didn't know who I was a few months ago, so suck yourselfs up.

Some argue that we must, like Clive's dad says, 'accept the mystery'. And I do, Mr. Clive's dad. I do. I accept that I shall forever have my head up my ass to these matters, I know that I can hypothesize all I want, but even the Coens probably didn't know what the fuck was up with this one. It's the story of Job, it's Schrodie's Cat (I can't spell the full name, okay?), it's an infinite loop of misery and paradox, redemption wasted on the dogged and the unwilling, where goys (i.e. you schmucks) get Hebrew slogans engraved on the back of their teeth, where the world is not limited to recreational building parking lots, where images are not there to support math, but vice fucking versa.

Impassioned speech over, bitches.