By Matt Rolfe
The new Ghostbusters movie that NO ONE asked for from Paul Feig and his crew of feminista SJWs has arrived, and my childhood has been absolutely ruined! Not only did I predictably hate this reboot, but the years from my birth up until I entered adolescence have been retroactively erased from my memory. Admittedly, I have no idea if those erased memories were the result of this new Ghostbusters callously destroying my treasured memories, or of unrelated black magicks. It’s probably the shitty movie, but let me explain.
I went to go see this latest cinematic abomination with Denny, Kyle, and Chucks, my best buds ever since grade school, or so I assume because everything from that period is a swirling void in my conscious memory. We bought tickets to a different movie and snuck into the chick flick (suck it Feig!), mostly because the movie was sure to be as terrible as I had assumed ever since the moment it was announced. I ended up sitting next to this weird dude who was wearing like a big black hooded sackcloth robe. I get it – if I went to see “Girlsbusters” by myself on purpose, I probably wouldn’t want people to see my face either!
Oh man, I just realized I can’t recall what my grandfather’s face looked like.
Anyways, I started mentally cataloguing all of the travesties of this so-called “film”, and meanwhile this LARP-looking weirdo keeps chanting under his breath in, like, a demonic tongue not meant for mortal ears or something. I had a hard time paying attention to his ceaseless unholy rite since another unholy thing was up on that screen, and it was that chick from Mike and Molly! Burn!
See, it’s just that the original Ghostbusters was a big part of my childhood. Or so I’m told by these photo albums full of pictures I no longer recognize myself in or have any emotional connection to. I mean, dark necromancy performed by hooded creeps doesn’t actually exist, so the only conclusion I can draw is that the new Ghostbusters shit the bed so hard that it actually ruined my ability to enjoy the original movie. Not only that, but it also ruined my ability to remember 6 years of swimming lessons, the smell of my mom’s shortbread cookies, or whether I once owned a pet cocker spaniel who loved me very much.
Thanks Feig!
By the time the lights came up the creepy monk guy was gone – he probably couldn’t show his face after how obviously brutal that movie was (though now that I think about it I’m not positive he had a face, so much as a lifeless eerie void). All I could think about was how much I hated that movie, and not about anything between the years 1985 to 1997.
So long story short, I walked out of the theatre pretty steamed and vaguely smelling like brimstone. This new movie remade a movie I used to like! How dare they!? Although, if I’m being perfectly honest, I can’t even remember the original movie now anyways, on account of my precious childhood memories having been lost to me forever. So it’s quite literally impossible for me to compare the new movie to the original one. If I had to ONLY go by what I remember (everything post-puberty) the new movie was fine, the crowd seemed to dig it. But that said, there is one thing I cannot stress enough:
Do you have any idea who my parents are?
