Election season is a real punch in the dick. And even if you don't have a dick, I'm sure there's a dick you'd like to punch. Candidates spend hundreds of millions of dollars vividly describing the limitless Hell we've found ourselves in, or will find ourselves in, assuming the other party wins. But cast your vote for me, angel, and we can both ascend together.
But that miserable f--king Hell is surely a relative place, right?, as likely half the people either didn't think it was so bad, or, maybe worse, didn't know until you told them. And we do this awful dance every four years, hoping things will change.
Or...stay the same. For the most part.
It's like this endless f--king loop, that while truly inspiring (or awful) at times, ultimately ends up with all of us right back where we started. Which begs the question...
...why bother in the first place?
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| Seriously, that tagline should probably be plastered all over the polls in Nov. |
Fine, Southbound, a 2015 horror-thriller, isn't actually about a certain political party here in the US, but it may or may not share some key features with it. Namely, narrow-minded murderous cults, a person who should not be in any hospital performing surgeries, and most obvious, a pair of decaying skeletons, flying over the Midwest terrifyingly eviscerating what's left of humanity.
Though I counted four, apparently Southbound, something of a horror compilation, contains five interlocking stories, all set in a nameless shithole of a desert town.
Our first story opens with a bang, as two bloody and battered dudes attempt to leave the aforementioned town, after some gnarly shit apparently went down. Off in the distance, some scary ass demon/skeleton thing is waiting for them, and eventually things get...well, messy.
From there, we get a couple of groovy minutes with a girl band, until their van breaks down along an isolated stretch of dreary, desert highway. Along comes a horribly Ned and Maude Flanders-esque creepy couple, promising to take the girls to the local mechanic...in the morning. After freshening up at their house, of course, and presumably taking long hot showers where each lady takes an environmentally-damning amount of time scrubbing their filthy bosoms. Oh, my bad. I was transcribing my dream journal again. Dinner is served, and chaos ensues.
