I remember walking into my parents bedroom late one X-Mas eve night…my little footie pajamas swish-swishing on the hardwood floor and hearing what I thought must have been the labored breathing of Santa dragging his sack of goodness across the roof when I looked up from rubbing the visions of sugarplums from my eyes to see the pained expressions of my parents in what was assuredly a wrestling match that undoubtedly no one was winning…sigh. Do you get where I’m going here? The new Ghostbusters is like catching your parents having sex: you knew it was happening, you tried to avoid hearing about it and then bam…its here, in your face, sweating and destroying X-Mas.
You might think I’m exaggerating. You might think that me using terms like “the taste that trailer left in my mouth was worse than the morning after a frat-house kegger full of Rohyphenol and broken dreams” is a little harsh, right? So go ahead, click the link below and watch your dad sing “backdoor man” with his new jugband aptly titled “Your Mom‘s O-Ring”. Fuck me.
