Okay. I’m going to start posting the story tomorrow (a couple of last-minute things I needed to do, and because I’m flaky I want to give it a better title so am busily trying to come up with one) but I had to share this.
First, my Faerie turned nine yesterday, which is just insane, and she had a slumber party on Saturday to celebrate. The girls (she had four guests, so with her and Princess we had six girls in the house) decided they wanted to play Beatles Rock Band. They pretty much sucked at it, hee, but honestly, that game isn’t as easy as it looks. Anyway. The best moment, I think, was when the hubs decided to give them a real challenge and have them try out “Helter Skelter.” Imagine, if you will, four nine-year-old girls singing “helter Skelter.” Now imagine that those nine-year-old girls do not know the song, and are not (of course) drunk–which, let’s be honest, the only way one can really get into the full non-shy spirit in which Rock Band is supposed to be played–so are basically just tunelessly chanting “Helter Skelter” in a weird little-girl monotone. In unison. It was honestly like we’d invited the Manson Family over for popcorn and cookie cake.
Anyway. Last night the hubs and I decided to start our Christmas Movie watching, and we started with LETHAL WEAPON. The Christmas elements in this one are pretty thin, really; a couple of vague references and some lights and a tree, but still.
Now, I remember when this movie came out, and what a huge deal it was. I remember watching it quite a few times and thinking it was great. And to be fair, it is still a decent movie–once you get past some of the ridiculous dialogue and contrivances and such. But you know, we were having fun with the ridiculous dialogue, and sort of laughing and poking gentle fun as we went along.
Then we got to the death of Michael Hunsaker. Some of you may recall that the movie’s plot spins directly from the death of Michael’s daughter Amanda, who was high and so distraught by the fact that she had apparently misplaced her bra and so was forced to be the film’s 80’s Gratuitous Boob-Baring Girl that she leapt from a hotel window and died. Michael was in the ‘Nam with Roger Murtaugh, which is how Riggs & Murtaugh got involved in all of this, and there you go.
Anyway. Here we have Amanda’s funeral (or memorial service). It takes place, we suppose, at the Hunsaker house, on a cliff overlooking the ocean:
While the mourners listen to speeches about how Amanda’s breasts were taken from the filmgoers long before their time, Roger and Michael have a Serious Talk about the sneaky Vietnam-vets-smuggling-heroin plot that led to Amanda’s death.
In fact, Michael is so upset–which we can imagine, since his daughter is dead, and he’s having to admit to the police that she’s dead partly because of him and his heroin-smuggling business–that he has to turn away and cover his eyes. Because of all the sorrow.
We feel very sorry for Michael. What a rough time he’s having. And now he’s having to admit not only his involvement in crime, but the fact that he’s terrified his other daughter will be killed or even that he himself may be killed, and his certainty that the police cannot stop it because the Bad Guys have trained mercenaries who have forgotten more ways to cause pain that you or I will ever know. He’s looking at his expensive study and his spiffy stereo and his lovely well-tailored suit, and realizing none of it was worth the loss of his child and his soul.
I’m amazed he’s not drunk, in fact. I imagine a guy could use a drink when his daughter is being buried. And Michael Hunsaker is no exception. He’s thirsty. Thirsty from all the talking and dehydrated from all the crying we assume he’s done and, well, just thirsty. So we totally see why he’d want something refreshing to drink. Good thing he keeps eight cartons of eggnog right there by his desk!
Oh, wait, sorry. That’s not just any eggnog. That’s “Party Nogg.” Because hey, it’s not just a funeral, it’s a party! If there’s anything that will make the memorial service for a twenty-two-year-old girl more festive, it’s Party Nogg. I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t keep multiple cartons of Nogg in their offices, right there in easy reach for whenever the Nogg mood strikes.
And you know how Nogg is especially good, right? Not just straight out of the carton, the way the classy folk drink it. But straight out of the carton kept right in front of the ocean-facing window, where it has plenty of time to absorb the warmth from the setting sun’s rays every evening. Now that’s good Nogg! I like mine with extra botulism, how about you? And when it curdles, well, it’s not just a drink, it’s a meal.
I mean, really. He keeps eight cartons of eggnog in his office? By the window? It’s his daughter’s funeral and not only is eggnog (Sorry, “Party Nogg”) the first thing he reaches for when he’s thirsty, he just drinks it right out of the carton?
What kind of funeral is this? Is it the kind where as soon as the ashes are blown away by the wind, the guests change their clothes from black to green-n-red and the DJ starts spinning those dance hits? (Tip for the 80’s DJ at this particular funeral-cum-Christmas-party: Do not play Murray Head’s “One Night in Bangkok.” I suspect it will not go over well.) Is the Party Nogg there to add a much-needed touch of holiday cheer to a young woman’s funeral service? To remind them that even in death, eggnog is delicious? I mean, I know I personally have often sat at funerals thinking, “Man, I could really go for some eggnog right now,” or “What this funeral needs is some Party Nogg to get everyone in the mood,” but I thought that was weird of me. I guess not? Is this one of those funerals where they celebrate the soul passing into another realm/being with [Deity of your choice] and everyone is supposed to be really happy for the dead person, and envious of them because now they get to float silently in the ether without a body or whatever while we living people are stuck here drinking and eating delicious food and having sex and other things that suck about being alive?
Are the guests all eggnog addicts (seriously, look at that first image. There are maybe twenty people there. Do you really need four gallons of eggnog for that many people)?
Who can drink that much fucking eggnog?
Perhaps Michael Hunsaker could, but we’ll never know, because out of nowhere, Gary Busey appears in one of those cool movie helicopters that is basically silent until it ascends over the cliffs, and shoots Hunsaker in the chest. But not just in the chest. In a hugely shocking cinematic touch that is in no way the whole reason why we have a man guzzling eggnog out of the carton while burying his child, Hunsaker is shot through the Nogg.
If you look closely, you’ll see that there’s no blood on his shirtfront. There is only Nogg. Now, I get that the idea is the bullet went through the carton, so eggnog would spill out both holes, but it raises some interesting Bathory-esque theories, doesn’t it, about why he has so much eggnog in his office, just sitting there? Why he seems to crave it so much he can’t even wait for a glass? Why it doesn’t bother him that he’s drinking a warm eggnog-flavored bacterial stew?
Is Michael Hunsaker made of eggnog? Perhaps the real story of the film isn’t heroin dealing, it’s experiments that created Nogg-blooded superbeasts, and the lengths to which they will go to ensure they are never without the Nogg they need to stay alive. Now THAT would be something, wouldn’t it?
Hell, perhaps this is actually all about the eggnog, and the heroin is a ruse. Maybe Gary Busey works for a rival eggnog firm (“Funeral Nogg,” anyone?) and is trying to destroy all the Party Nogg out there, and woe betide any who get in his way.
Seriously. This is even stranger than the end of Ghostbusters 2, where a crowd of people faced with eternal darkness and the Titanic’s arrival and ghosts wandering the streets and a museum covered in an impenetrable shell of otherworldly slime and the Statue of Liberty hopping off her plinth to go for a walk–basically, with terrifying evidence that something Extremely Bad is happening and they could all be dead in the next few minutes–nonetheless decide they’re not only going to celebrate the new year, they’re all going to toast each other and sing “Auld Lang Syne” while they wait for their seemingly inevitable death-by-slime. You know, because life must go on, and from all the signs, there’s good reason to think that this year will be the best ever.
So the moral here is, Gary Busey hates eggnog. And you.