Venomous Review of Movie: Superbad

I knew better, I really did. Now I'm going to be celibate and despise humanity the rest of my life.
Should have insisted we play Rock Band, but no, I let myself be subjected to the movie that has single-handedly killed any desire I might have once had for anything sexual. One can only take something one enjoys and watch monkeys insult it for so long before the taste for it is completely diminished. It also killed my faith in humanity, though Michael Sera may live.

Why?! Why is humanity a festering pustule of stupidity -- pulsing, gurgling, oozing unholy impulses that like the very temptresses of Hell will only lead it to misery and hollowness?! Yes, now I think I would be perfectly comfortable in a nunnery -- I have all the proper zealous hatred of all things human. What has turned Kwizzy from a free-love hippie with infinite faith in humanity to a screaming, raging angel of darkness whose only thought is punishment of the masses -- those masses made of useless meat that understands itself less than a grain of sand understands its place in the corner of the room as dust, nothing? What has given Kwizzy demonic delight in the eternal truth that those who seek their selfish, hollow, useless desires will find exactly what they look for -- misery wrapped in a shroud of freedom and pleasure?

Superbad.

Yes, she should have known better.

Of course I got the true "point," -- don't patronize me like I'm some sort of frightened sheep -- worried at the mere mention of anatomy or an f-bomb! I fear no such things, and neither can they blind me! "The point," as it were, was the usual "coming of age" ideal of realizing what is important in life, yada, yada, blah blah blah. I even had the taste, or sense of irony, to notice how the story foreshadows itself, paces quite well, evolves, and comes to what could be called a sweet denouement. However, this film has the same paradoxical punishment of the audience as those Holocaust survivor films do: they show you humanity is a wretched pile of worthless hatred and cruelty, born only to watch pleasant feelings -- joy, love, laughter -- dangled in its face, tantalizing, while other men beat it savagely -- marking pain as the primary sensation of this world; humankind is a beast, long-suffering in the worst sense, taunted, jabbed, beaten, slapped, humiliated -- that is all it truly knows, and all it can truly give. Yet, somehow, a shining light -- a hollow insult, a slap to the face -- trying to tell us that there is hope, love, and truth within the dark prisons of humanity's worthlessness. Yes, we're supposed to feel good about this. We're supposed to hope.

No! NO! You're telling me the point of Superbad was somehow this enlightenment, this hope, this idea that perhaps we are not worthless -- when it was telling me overwhelmingly otherwise -- NO! Silence, fool! Shut your worthless maw, and if there is any kind of goodness in this world, any sort of hope, you will be know the contradiction -- the contradiction enveloped in the despair you so willingly plant in our hearts and minds, drowning in a murky pit of hatred -- all you showed us, all the protective, tender flesh of hope you peeled back to reveal the blackened bone of emptiness every one of us has waiting for us. No, I will not hope. Hope is too tender, too quiet, too soft, too weak to possibly overcome the outburst, the despair, the desperation, the kind of rage that blinds all reason and wishes upon itself pain and prays that it will bring pain to others.

I despise people. I despise their naivete, their desire, their impulses, their selfishness, their uselessness, their hollow struggles. I despise them. Their enlightenment means nothing to me -- only their destruction. Why? So they will at last cease to torture me with their constant, belligerent worthlessness! Pitiful wretches who would not know anything were it not for the searing whips of knowledge, of pain, of experience! Even then they will not heed! NO! They scream and wail about their burnt flesh, their bloody skin, and like an untrainable beast, crying out for the pain to end -- doing nothing, nothing, to stop it. Why can't the beast stop the pain, the brimstone lash? Circumstance? No, the beast is simply too foolish, too naive, too stupid to understand the pain, where it is coming from, or how to stop it. The beast is even too low to use the knowledge it gains through this pain. It just continues on its way, marked by experience, scarred by knowledge, and yet completely oblivious of all of it. This beast will live and die in pain, and it will not even appreciate it! What's the point then?! Ha ha, that is precisely the point -- there is none! At the state when not even pain can be appreciated, there is no point to anything anymore!

What all of this spilling venom of hatred of Biblical proportions meant is that I didn't just dislike Superbad. I despised it. But I am no hypocrite -- no! I will not simply cry out in pain, confused, and learn nothing from it like the poor beast -- no! I cradle my searing wound, I caress it, feel as acutely as I can the angry pulse of my torn soul, bleeding, screaming, weeping. There is a kind of euphoria in such anger, such madness, such submersion in agony. All "negative" feelings are agony, are they not? From this, I gain something. A scar? Silly silly, why would I let something so divinely excruciating heal? The despair, the hatred, the anger, the sorrow -- surely this blow has opened many, much smaller wounds -- and now they dance together! The great, new, fresh, wonderful wound -- and all its smaller brothers and sisters! A waltz, a jig, many tiny minuets, a veritable ballet of pain! It's... glorious.

Yes... See Superbad. Join me! Join me in the agony! Revel in the destruction of all your purity, all your hope, all those pitiful lies! Join me!