Bah fucking humbug!" That's what clinks through my thinker as my inner Scrooge slaps on his polka-dotted spandex pants, cracks a fifth of peppermint schnapps,

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Seeking Comfort in a Cinematic Holiday Poop Sandwich

In the season of terrifying silver bells, the solace of the terrible silver screen.

Bah fucking humbug!" That's what clinks through my thinker as my inner Scrooge slaps on his polka-dotted spandex pants, cracks a fifth of peppermint schnapps, and slides the hardcore porn into the VCR. I just can't help it; in times of Christian fervor I seem to find myself full of the devil. Sugarplums throw me into fits of rage, carols give me delirium tremens, each painted reindeer an instant hernia, every "Ho, ho, ho" a dagger in my temple. It's terror enough to make a person do something drastic—like go to the movies.

In my angst and self-pitying doom I seek solace in my own pagan tradition: Year after year I subject myself to the intolerable horrors expelled from the belly of the Hollywood beast. It's my reward for being awful. I treat myself to one cinematic poop sandwich on Xmas Day and another on New Year's. Why? Because I am full of hate and rage, misery and masochism. I long for, nay, crave the hideous malfunctions of modern America. They soothe my wretched soul, comfort my lecherous desires. I know in my heart of hearts that a darkened cathedral shall deliver me from thought, shall dwarf my bloated frame with 30-foot dunderheads hobbling through hula hoops of mimmer and spuck, infinitely erecting Jenga towers of depth-defying plot.

This year I'm feeling particularly lusty in my anticipation of poop sandwich consumption. I've carefully scoured the bosom of Our Lady Film and settled on a couple flickers that I think it's safe to say would have both Jesus and Santa mooing in their canoes. Just in time for Xmas, poop sandwich number one is called Kate & Leopold, starring Meg Ryan and some guy. Meg's "a 21st-century woman driven to succeed in the corporate world," and some guy's "the Third Duke of Albany, a charming 19th-century bachelor." "But wait," you say, shaking your petulant heads, arms akimbo in dismay, "how can you have two characters from different centuries fall in love?" Two words, my friend: Chaka Khan. Did I say Chaka Khan? I meant to say portal.

The New Year's Day 2002 poop sandwich has been much more difficult to choose. What I really wanted to see was some sort of man-boy soul-swap like Vice Versa, the Fred Savage/Judge Reinhold vehicle, or Like Father, Like Son, featuring the deliciously delightful talents of Kirk Cameron and Dudley Moore. But alack, the dark angels of cinema have thwarted me again. Anon, vengeance; mark my words, anon!

For now I'll have to settle on the closest genre to body-swapping: sci-fi. For those unfamiliar with the term, it's a plucky hybrid of fiction and science, usually prophesizing some sort of doomful apocalyptic future where everybody's extremely dirty, mean, or scared. I say anoint thy New Year with Impostor. It's 2079 and there's a scientist (Gary Sinise) who does not seem particularly evil until one day he is suspected of being particularly evil and is chased around by bad guys, or good guys, depending on your point of view, because they think he's a ticking time bomb/alien hell-bent on blowing up the whole goddamn world. Of course, this should come as no surprise because we're in the future, where "nothing is as it seems and paranoia is everywhere."

Well, enough said. Obviously you'd be a jellied fool to let either of these moving-picture splendor crabs crawl away from you, so kick off the Dearfoams, strap on the Isotoners, and go out there and serve yourself up a hot poop sandwich. Bon app鴩t!

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