2008 Woodie Awards
Goonies are good enough
Issue date: 9/12/07 Section: Opinion
I still pick my nose.
Some people outgrow that urge to finger-mine the magic nose goblins at an early age - filthy habit, ya know?
But not me.
Nope. I still seek out those crusty cornflakes that dwell near the backdoor of my nostrils.
It feels good - especially when you find a real keeper. You know the excitement Indiana Jones got when he unearthed the Ark of the Covenant?
Yeah, it's like that every time.
There are just some things you never outgrow. I still know the gore code for the Sega Genesis version of the original Mortal Kombat. I still microwave bologna and cheese sandwiches. And I get jealous every time I see my nephew cruising around on his big wheel.
Some things just stick for life - like the coke stains circling Lindsay Lohan's nose holes.
One thing in particular continues to resurface on a regular basis, permanently drawn on the Etch-a-Sketch of my personality.
The Goonies.
Few movies have impacted my sorry excuse for an existence quite as profoundly as that film. And if you're about my age, you probably feel the same.
That is also assuming you can appreciate cheesy movies -- and aren't one of those vomit-inducing "I'm-so-damned-deep-and-artistic" serious types, who only watches films no one else has ever seen in order to keep your "scene cred" intact.
Sometimes Cheddar's better, ya know.
I bring up memories of the truffle shuffle and a 12-year-old Corey Feldman's inviting tongue as a means of communicating an interesting reality I discovered the other day.
I have outgrown college.
Well, maybe not entirely. I think I've actually outgrown more of the stereotype that clings to college campuses like the Bush Administration clings to 9/11 (zing!).
You know what I mean.
The Beer Pong marathons and the smell of Jager-colored vomit caked on bathroom stalls. Running barefoot through the woods in the middle of the night trying to dodge the local fuzz. Loose young men and women eagerly swapping whatever STDs they may have in an endless orgy of drugs and debauchery.
Some people outgrow that urge to finger-mine the magic nose goblins at an early age - filthy habit, ya know?
But not me.
Nope. I still seek out those crusty cornflakes that dwell near the backdoor of my nostrils.
It feels good - especially when you find a real keeper. You know the excitement Indiana Jones got when he unearthed the Ark of the Covenant?
Yeah, it's like that every time.
There are just some things you never outgrow. I still know the gore code for the Sega Genesis version of the original Mortal Kombat. I still microwave bologna and cheese sandwiches. And I get jealous every time I see my nephew cruising around on his big wheel.
Some things just stick for life - like the coke stains circling Lindsay Lohan's nose holes.
One thing in particular continues to resurface on a regular basis, permanently drawn on the Etch-a-Sketch of my personality.
The Goonies.
Few movies have impacted my sorry excuse for an existence quite as profoundly as that film. And if you're about my age, you probably feel the same.
That is also assuming you can appreciate cheesy movies -- and aren't one of those vomit-inducing "I'm-so-damned-deep-and-artistic" serious types, who only watches films no one else has ever seen in order to keep your "scene cred" intact.
Sometimes Cheddar's better, ya know.
I bring up memories of the truffle shuffle and a 12-year-old Corey Feldman's inviting tongue as a means of communicating an interesting reality I discovered the other day.
I have outgrown college.
Well, maybe not entirely. I think I've actually outgrown more of the stereotype that clings to college campuses like the Bush Administration clings to 9/11 (zing!).
You know what I mean.
The Beer Pong marathons and the smell of Jager-colored vomit caked on bathroom stalls. Running barefoot through the woods in the middle of the night trying to dodge the local fuzz. Loose young men and women eagerly swapping whatever STDs they may have in an endless orgy of drugs and debauchery.
Be the first to comment on this story