Perfectly Pointless Poems #1

The Course Overload series will be returning in the next post. Today, I have chosen to educate you with some delightful, classy poetry.

A Ninja is Waiting (4U)


It's true, it's true

a ninja lies in wait

just for you

You think you can run
you think you can hide
but that ninja
is right by your side

and you're gonna die
yes, you're gonna die



Eskimo Love


The Erotic Eskimo;
he likes his lovin'
cold.




One for J.J.


Swinging high above the sky scrapers,
he waits;
the sounds of city life
swirl around him
like the delicate scent

of an expensive perfume.

Clinging to a building,

he watches;

clouds just overhead,
the people look like ants
in some sort of giant,
smog-entwined zoo.
He's your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man;
watching over his home from the heavens,
and doing whatever a spider can.

Course Overload #5: "Cheers!"

I didn’t drink alcohol before I was 21 . Yes, I was a goody-two-shoes, a party pooper, a crazy mofo; whatever you want to call me. I just wanted to wait until it was legal. I understand that given some of my subject matter, my loyal reader(s) could reasonably infer that I’d been perpetually sloshed every time I sat down at the word processor. Well, I’m sorry if I burst anyone’s beer bubble, but I was actually 100 percent sober every time. The only influence I was under while writing is insanity.

Somehow, over the course of my first 19 years, the drinking alcohol hardly ever came up. There’s only one instance I can think of, and that’s the cast party for my high school’s production of Fiddler on the Roof. I had the honor of playing a human statue of the fiddler. Basically, my part involved standing in the lobby for several hours in the same position, acting as a human decoration when people were buying their tickets and allowing small children to drape candy wrappers and used tissues over my extended limbs. I was told that I was the backbone of the production and invited to the cast party.

By the time I got there, everyone, including the all three daughters, the Matchmaker, most of the townspeople, Lazar Wolf, and even Tevia himself, had had too much to drink. The only sober people remaining – me, the cat, and a few ferns – spent the entire time asking people if they were drunk. The answer was always “no,” at which point I would ask them to prove it by doing a handstand or a cartwheel. Around 3 a.m., I began requesting backflips. I was even considering dragging the neighbor’s trampoline into the house around 5 a.m., but by then all the fun drunks had passed out in various compromising positions. I spent an hour or so dressing them all in festive togas, and around the time the sun came up, I simply got up and left. I spent the next three hours walking home, in the cold, with nothing but my trusty overshirt and my dull wits to protect me.

Perhaps it was the disappointment of seeing an entire group of people I respected reduced to babbling morons (with togas!), or maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t have just gone to sleep, for fear of being "shaving creamed" or having my hand dunked in warm water. Or it might have even been the pair of hunters who chased me for a good half mile of my walk home wile waving their shotguns in the air and screaming obscenities. But that day I decided that alcohol wasn’t for me until I could handle it, and 21 seemed like a good age for that.

For the rest of my high school career, my teetotaling  wasn’t a problem. However, within the first few weeks of college, the subject of drinking came up nearly two billion times. It all started when I was offered a beer at a party. “Oh, you go ahead and drink it,” I said. “I think I’ll just have a coke.” The happy chatter ceased. The music ended abruptly. The entire room fell silent. Everyone, drink in hand, stared at me. You’d think I had said, “Oh, no thanks. I’d rather bite the heads off of these kittens.” They simply could not fathom that anyone could turn down a beer.

From that day forward it was my friends’ mission in life to get me drunk. And it wasn’t just my college buddies: People I haven’t seen in years took up the cause too. Around that time saw my decrepit Uncle Jimbo for the first time in about ten years. The first thing out of his mouth was not “hello,” or “nice to see you again.” It was, “Why don’t you have a beer?” Even my girlfriend at the time was in on it. If it were possible to get drunk while simultaneously cutting off my ponytail and driving too fast, she’d have signed me up without my knowledge.

A typical conversation, with anyone I knew, usually went like this:

FRIEND: You should get drunk, Matt.

ME: No thanks.

FRIEND: Come on, it’ll be fun. Besides, alcohol builds strong bones and increases awareness. Consuming alcohol also helps feed the starving children in Kosovo. What, are you some sort of baby killer, Matt? You don’t want to be a murderer, do you!? Their deaths will be on your head! Help! Police! This man kills children!

ME (over the screaming): But, wouldn’t this time be better spent trying to find out what makes life so unbearable that society has to periodically ingest mass quantities of a semi-toxic substance just to be able to go on with our lives?

FRIEND: You bring up a good point, Mr. Frey. Perhaps you should expand on that idea over a nice jug of vodka.

As you can plainly see, it was a conspiracy. I was convinced that there was an entire government agency devoted to getting me wasted. An elite network of spies from all the countries of the world exchanged cryptic passwords and manila envelopes with each other while wearing trench coats and silly gangster hats to blend in, even in the summer, all for the sole purpose of slipping me a Mickey.

For the longest time, I asked myself, “Why does everyone get agitated when I turn down alcohol? Why does the entire world want to get me drunk?” But now I think I finally understand. I’ve figured out everyone’s little game. See, it’s like this: Nearly all my friends worked for Budweizer, on commission. Literally, their college education depended on my intoxication. It’s the only logical answer. In the early 2000s, there must have been only two kinds of people in this world: Those employed by Budweizer, and me. And a few ferns.

People should be allowed to do what they want, as long as its within reason and its not taking away someone else's rights. If you want to drink then fine, I’m not going to stop you. And if I want to drink, and I'm 21 and I’m not driving someplace afterwards, you shouldn’t try to stop me. But by the same token, I should be entitled to not drink if I so choose.

Just keep in mind that if you exercise your right to drink, I might exercise my right to dress passed out friends in togas.

Course Overload #4: "Snooze Blues"

Does anyone out there remember sleep? It was good, if memory serves. I seem to recall it involving something known as a “bed” and another thing called a “blanket.” I also have memories of a third object, called “handcuffs,” but I don’t quite remember what they do.

I also know about something called a “nap.” Well, I know what the word “nap” means, in theory, but I don’t really have an experience to connect with the word. The last time I took a nap was sometime in 2001, and even then, it was because I was run over by a beer truck on the way to class. All I remember is seeing a conspicuously insect-free place high above the clouds, filled with angels playing Playstation games. Then I saw a man with a long gray beard and a shining white robe. He took one look at me and started laughing. The old man gave me a thumbs down gesture, snapped his fingers, and the next thing I remember is limping to English 101 with approximately 20 pounds of extra steel embedded in my body. I guess the professor smelled the alcohol on me from the beer truck accident, and I spent the next 10 hours in the dean’s office trying to explain that I wasn’t drunk; I smelled like beer because an old man in the sky made me take a nap.

By now I’ll bet you’re wondering why I don’t get much sleep. The answer is quite simple: I’m in college now, so I know better. Studies have shown that as we grow older, our bodies need more sleep. However, millions of people from around the globe have died in their sleep, thus it’s only logical to conclude that too much sleep kills you. In fact, sleep is the second leading cause of death among college age adults, the first being death. All college professors know this, and in a genuinely heroic attempt to keep us college students alive, they give us lots of things to keep us occupied during those lonely nighttime hours.

I am very grateful to my professors for doing me such an admirable service. After all, the youth of today are tomorrow’s leaders, so it would be wise to make sure some of us stay alive. Otherwise, children in the future will have a very hard time playing “Follow the Leader.” The game will simply be reduced to “Follow.”

Yet, as great as living is, sometimes I wish sleep wasn’t so deadly. Often, after staying up well past 14 or 15 o’clock, my body begins to malfunction. For example, the sleep depravation has begun to affect my memory. I will honestly not remember writing this, and when I see it on this blog, I will be very excited that I wrote an article. About half way through, I will forget who wrote it, look back at the author, and become excited all over again. This process will repeat itself until someone takes the PC away from me or I have to use the bathroom. Hopefully, I won’t look for something to read while I’m in there, or the vicious cycle will start all over again.

Unfortunately, I’m a commuter, and sleep deprivation affects my driving skills. For example, I often set my cruise control and go to sleep on the way to school. I just let my Taurus bounce off the guard rails for 28 miles until I get to school, like those bumpers they set up for little kids’ birthday parties in bowling alleys. This usually works pretty well, but every once in a while I’ll wake up in a ditch somewhere in Maryland. When this happens, I turn the car around in the opposite direction I was going, turn on cruise control again and go back to sleep.

I’ve also discovered another problem: No sleep impairs my judgment. One time, I thought it would be a pretty good joke if I called the fire department and told them that my grandmother’s cat was stuck in a tree and that they needed to hurry over before she attempted to help him down with her shotgun. I also said the cat was on fire. And full of dynamite. So, a few minutes later, 37 firemen arrived and dashed from the fire truck, waving axes and fire hoses high above their heads. I ran up to them with a look of terror in my eyes, put my hand on the fire chief’s shoulder, and exclaimed, “Tag! You’re it!” About 150 hours of community service have since shown me the error of my ways, so I can honestly guarantee that I’d never do something like that ever again. Oh, while I’m on the subject of firemen, did you know that the fines for calling in a fake emergency are doubled if you do it more than once?

My attention span has been also affected. Sometimes, I’ll start a sentence and never

And other times, I startt mizspeling thinngz. When it gets really bad, I just begin to speak in gibberish. This makes it very difficult for my flapjacks to buy their pants. But that made me realize that I should donate all of my salt to the furtive monkey dishwasher. I hear it's amazing when the purple stuffed worm in flap jaw space does a raw blink on Hari-kiri Rock. I need scissors! 61!

You know, as deadly as they are, I’m starting to think that I should just take my chances with this whole “nap” thing.

Course Overload #3: "Shhh!"

“Need a quiet place to study?” the sign read. Why yes Mr. Sign, I do. How did you know?
According to the sign on the door, the second floor of the library was reserved for quiet study, and that’s what I needed. My modern American English class had been canceled for some reason and I had to kill some time before history. And what better way to kill time than studying, aside from hanging out with what I’ve heard other people call “friends.” But I’m not exactly sure what those are, or even how much one of them would cost, so it was down to the second floor for me.

Stepping through the door, I found a comfortable seat near the window, pulled out my history book, and cracked it open. No more than six seconds later, I was startled by a loud noise.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

I tried to ignore it, but after a few minutes, I had begun digging out my own eyeball with my thumb in frustration. I needed to know what was making those horrible sounds. A quick search of the library revealed nothing, so I went to the librarian’s desk to find out what was going on. Low and behold, I found the librarian stacking old textbooks into a giant cardboard box.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Shh! No talking in the library. This is a place for quiet study,” she yelled back, tossing in a few more books with a loud crash.

“Well, I came to ask if you could stop making so much noise. I’ve got to study for this history test, see, and…” Before I could finish, another librarian approached and carelessly tossed a stack of CDs into the mysterious box.

This piqued my curiosity. Storing books in a library is one thing, but CDs? I snuck a look inside the box while the librarians conversed, and to my surprise, it was filled with the things nightmares are scared of. Next to about a dozen selections from Opera’s book club were a pair of leg warmers, three Milli Vanilli CDs, every Ace of Base single ever, a copy of Freddie Got Fingered, some Pokémon cards, Plan 9 from Outer Space on DVD, and a stack of E.T. Atari cartridges.

“What’s this all about?” I asked, puzzled.

“If you must know, these are the things we’re sending away,” the librarian replied.

“Sending away?” I was more confused than ever.

“Yes, sending away. Whenever we don’t like something, we put it in a box and send it to Rutgers University in New Jersey. We never put a return address on it, so those suckers have no idea who’s sending them all this awful junk.”

I didn’t say anything for a long time. I watched the librarians disassemble an entire Macintosh computer and put it in the box piece by piece. “Why Rutgers?” I finally asked.

“Why not?” the librarian replied. “Now if you don’t stop bothering me, I’ll put you in here too. It’s not all that hard to poke some air holes in one of these boxes, you know.” The thought of being so close to so many horrible things made me scream inside. Without another word, I went back to my history book.

Within a few minutes, I had settled down and was starting to read again, when suddenly, the shrill cry of a siren cut through the air. It wasn’t a fire alarm, no. It was more like a car alarm.

“What’s that flippin’ noise!?” I exclaimed, only I didn’t say “flippin’.”

“Oh,” said the girl sitting next to me, “that’s the Learning Alarm.”

“The Learning Alarm?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, “it goes off whenever someone starts learning something in here. It’s to alert everyone else to your great accomplishment. It’s a real honor.”

“I should have gone to Marist,” I mumbled, gathering my things and walking toward the exit. Just above the door, a small box-like object flashed like a strobe light, and emitted the earsplitting alarm tone. Taking great aim, I tossed my history book at the box, knocking it to the ground. Somehow, it continued flashing and wailing. It must have had a self-contained power supply.

Without even looking, I tossed both the alarm and my history book into the Rutgers box and ran out of the library crying. As I ran from the room, I could hear the librarian shouting at me. “Stop that incessant crying!” she yelled. “Don’t you know that the second floor is reserved for quiet study?”

I never did get much studying done for that test, but I’m not exactly worried about it. I’m a smart individual, and perhaps I absorbed enough information in class to pass. There’s that, and… let’s just say that the test is on its way to Rutgers now.

Course Overload #2: "Fire Bad"

Every once in a while, something happened at my college that was truly out of the ordinary. One time, the plumbing in the MST building broke, and all the toilets overflowed; it would have been funny if the death toll hadn’t been so high. A few years later, a hurricane hit and everyone needed to be sent home for the weekend. Little did I know when I woke up one fine morning that it was going to be one of those days.

The college café was serving hot dogs.

I couldn’t believe it. After I found out the great news, I was eager to get to the café. I bolted from the steps I had been sitting on and began my one-man race to glory. Somewhere along the line I found my friend Dave, and we decided to partake in the rarity of the hot dogs together.

I was one of those sunny September afternoons; the kind of day that seems more like July or August than a school month. Everything was perfect: the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the smell of the freshly cut grass danced in the air, and millions of cubic feet of a highly flammable natural gas was leaking from a ruptured main somewhere near the dorms. Ah, that was the life.

Of course, Dave and I had no idea there was a gas leak and went skipping merrily to our potential deaths. As we approached the café, I noticed a huge group of people standing outside.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“It might have something to do with that natural gas smell,” replied Dave.

It looked like we were going to have to ask someone what was going on. I took a quick glance at the crowd, and fortunately I spotted my friend Sandy. She was standing near the entrance.

“What’s going on?” I asked, walking towards her.

“Apparently there’s some sort of gas leak,” Sandy replied.

I stopped for a moment, considering the possible repercussions of a gas leak. Specifically, I wondered if the hot dogs would be okay.

“What caused it?”

“Oh, it was probably the leprechauns,” said Sandy.

“The what?” I asked.

“The leprechauns,” she replied confidently. “I saw a few suspicious ones running around in Hudson before they evacuated us.”

“You mean to tell me there are leprechauns you consider non-suspicious?” interjected Dave.

“Wait, how long were you in there?” I asked, motioning towards the café.

“Like, two hours. I was going to leave as soon as I smelled the gas, but after a while, breathing it in makes you feel goooood.”

Well, that explained the leprechauns.

Much to my dismay, Dave and I decided that it would probably be in our best interest to eat somewhere else. Squirming our way out of the center of the crowd, something caught my eye. It was too far away for me to intervene. All I could do was look on in horror.

About ten feet away from me, a guy in a leather jacket was bringing a cigarette up to his mouth. He was mumbling something about classes being canceled to his friend, whose attention was firmly focused on the fire trucks that had just surrounded the campus. His other hand had a lighter. Slowly it rose to the edge of the cigarette.

My major happened to be Media Studies, so I’ll be the first to admit I do not have a long and prosperous career as a scientist ahead of me. But, I did pay attention in my high school Chemistry class just long enough to learn that natural gas is flammable. And that no matter how pretty and mesmerizing the Bunsen burner flame is you should never try to lick it. But that’s neither here nor there.

The only thing left for me to do was to stare death in the face, brace myself, and valiantly scream like a little girl. Luckily, in-between watching the mob of firemen come pouring out of the fire trucks, Cigarette Guy’s friend had turned around to speak with him.

“Hey,” Cigarette Guy’s friend began, “I just thought of something. Instead of pouring milk on my cereal in the morning, I could use vod… OH DEAR GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” Cigarette Guy barley had time to look up from his lighter before the punches came raining down on him like a tsunami. Ah, crisis averted.

With Cigarette Guy writhing on the ground and the firemen descending upon the college like moths to a flame, everything looked like it would be all right. Dave and I managed to weasel our way out of the crowd at last, and, breathing a sigh of relief, we watched the action from a safe distance.

“It’s a good thing that the guy with the cigarette didn’t light it,” commented Dave, watching the firemen knock down a clearly unlocked door and scramble inside the Café.

“Yeah,” I replied. “That would have been disastrous.”

Dave shook his head. “It would have really detracted from the Bonfire Club’s meeting.”

“Right. It’s not nice to – Wait, the Bonfire Club?”

“All right, guys, you can put the wood down here,” a voice yelled. I watched as about 25 students dropped armloads of branches and ply wood on the ground where Cigarette Guy and his friend had been standing.

“Darn it,” interjected another member of the group. “I left the gasoline in my dorm. Wait here and I’ll go get it.”

She trotted off happily.

“If you don’t mind, Dave, I think I’ll skip lunch today,” I said, walking to my car. Dave agreed, and soon we had gone our separate ways.

Like I said, every once in a while, something happened at my college that was truly out of the ordinary. Much like the time that the toilets overflowed, and the time the hurricane hit, I’m sure that faithful day will remain the minds of the students for years to come: The day Matt Frey turns down hot dogs is truly out of the ordinary.

Oh, and the gas leak was kind of weird too.

Course Overload #1: "Multitasking"

I sat in the library one cold, rainy October morning, cramming in some last minute studying before my psychology test. I came to the library because it’s usually a nice, quiet place. But that morning, I would not have the silence I needed.

As I opened my psychology book and flipped to the appropriate page, my attention was drawn to the people entering the library. Normally, I don’t bother looking up to see who’s coming in, but these two were making so much noise, I’d have to have been deaf to not notice them. They walked in and sat down across from me.

Being the nosy person that I am, I couldn’t help “overhearing” their conversation. The first guy, who was wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day, was complaining that getting drunk wastes too much of his time.

“In between drinking and skipping most of my classes,” he said, “I never have time to do anything else.”

“What you need to do is learn how to multitask,” replied his friend, who had apparently shaved only half his face that morning.

“Multitask?” I wondered. They had my attention. Psychology test be damned; I was curious now.

“Yes, multitask,” he continued. “Multitasking is doing two things at once to save time. For example, why should drinking and going to class be two separate things? Why not bring your beer to class and drink it there? That way, you’ll save time by attending class and getting drunk simultaneously. Then you’ll have more time to study.”

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” I thought.

“That’s the greatest idea I’ve ever heard!” exclaimed Sunglasses. At that point, he became very excited. “Instead of using milk on my cereal in the morning, I could use vodka! The possibilities are endless!”

There, in that library, on that chilly October morning, I realized something: College students are insane. Although I’d only been attending college for a short time, I’d seen plenty of students embracing their psychosis. The first that comes to mind is the daily occurrences in my friend Dave’s dorm room. Upon entering, his room seems normal enough. There are a few chairs, a bed, and a small television in the corner. However, all I have to do is sit for a moment, and I’ll be treated to a display of insanity that never ceases to boggle my mind.

At least 23 times a day, Dave’s dorm door opens, and in comes an intruder that neither Dave nor I have ever seen. Without a word, the intruder walks into the room, takes some food, and leaves. Instead of stopping the thief, Dave greets him with a cheerful “hello.” Usually, the intruder gives a nod or a wave and proceeds on his way. Afterwards, I look at Dave and ask, “Who was that?” And every time, Dave answers back, “I don’t know.” Sometimes, someone steals a box of cereal. On the way out, the intruder looks at Dave and mumbles, “It’s for my vodka.”

The madness doesn’t end with drinking and stealing food from dorms. I noticed a while ago that an acquaintance of mine, Derek, shaved his head. This, in itself, was not necessarily insane. But one nippy December morning all that changed.

The weather had gone from okay to disagreeable that day. Rain seemed imminent. I was sitting in the student lounge in Aquinas, again trying to squeeze a bit more studying in before a quiz. I was startled by the sound of a familiar voice.

“Hello, Matt,” Derek said cheerfully. “It certainly is a cold day. I’m freezing!”

I looked up, a greeting on my lips, but found myself unable to speak. Derek, the guy who had shaved his head, was now wearing a winter hat. I wondered why he bothered shaving his head at all if he was just going to wear a hat. Why not just leave his hair where it was, and the hat at home?
“Why… with the hat… and the shaved head… and the…?” I replied.

“Well, nice seeing you,” Derek said, standing up to leave. It was then that I noticed Derek was wearing shorts.

Shorts.

The changes I made in my life after that were subtle. I stopped going to the library to study, to prevent overhearing any more ideas that are liable to compromise my precious, ever-slipping sanity, and I’m just a little more protective of my food when in Dave’s dorm. Finally, I keep my eyes closed at all times when talking to Derek, as I’ve decided that he should be an audio-only friend, for my safety, as well as his.

Oh well; I guess that sanity kind of subjective. For instance, there are probably a whole group of people who look at me and say, “What a freak! He has hair on his head and puts milk on his Cheerios.”

Turn Off the Lights and Turn On the Fear

So it’s getting close to Halloween and you’d like to get into the spirit of the holiday, but you’ve already dressed up like David Bowie and egged your neighbor’s house? I suppose you could go to some costume shindig or something, but I, Matt Frey, have spent countless hours of my life slaving over the following list of scary movies for you to see instead.

Social interaction is overrated anyway.

Friday the 13th: Even though Freddy Krueger is my hero, Jason Voorhees, the villain of the Friday the 13th series, still holds a special place in my black heart. Despite the disappointing Jason Goes to Hell and carnival of pain that is Jason X, the series is pretty entertaining and a great pick for some Halloween fun. However, the old Nintendo game is actually scarier than the movies. For one thing, the music freaks you out, and random Jason encounters leave you paranoid; you’re always terrified that he’ll jump out at you in the woods and kill your character. The other reason it’s so scary is that it’s one of the worst games ever made. It’s frustrating, ugly, and boring. And yet, I love it. Go figure.

Halloween: I know what you’re thinking, but despite the title, this film is NOT about Easter. No, it’s about the maniac killing machine Michael Myers. For some reason, Michael is very angry at the local teen baby sitter population, and he proceeds to off them one by one in creative, sometimes decorative ways. A classic; required Halloween time viewing.

Gigli: It was so scary, I cried for hours.

A Nightmare on Elm Street: This series has had its ups and downs, but as a whole, it’s a lot of fun. Nothing beats Johnny Depp being eaten by a demon bed, Freddy bleeding something that looks like Mountain Dew, random livestock running around in Freddy’s basement, and Nancy’s aloof, orange skinned mother. And that’s just in the first installment. If you’re looking for a crash course in Freddyology, see parts one, three, and seven.

The Others: Most of the fear in this movie stems not from brutal slayings, but from psychological terror. One of the people I saw it with four years ago grabbed my arm so hard during the scary parts that her fingerprints are still embedded in my skin. It was like a free tattoo, only it hurt more and it looks stupid. Thanks, Nicole Kidman!

The Rocky Horror Picture Show: Yeah, so, it’s not really a horror movie. But there are lots of people running around wearing Halloween costumes in it, and it has the word “horror” in the title, so I’m putting it here anyway. After watching this movie, even smiling will make your face ache.

Silent Hill: The movie is pretty good, but look: Get the original Playstation game. Now. It’s terrifying. The second one, for PS2, isn’t as scary, but the storyline is great for creeping you out the more you think about it. Both do a better job making you cry for your mommy than the recent film, but if a DVD player is all you have, don’t hesitate to see it.

Sleepaway Camp: Yeah, I hadn’t heard of this either until I picked it up on a whim. At first, I thought it was a cheap Friday the 13th rip-off, but it’s actually nothing like it. It keeps you guessing until the truly shocking final scene, which I sometimes re-watch whenever I need to experience severe psychological trauma for a paper or something.

Videodrome: This film raises some terrifying questions about control, the dark side of human sexuality, and if there’s anything good on TV. It’s probably not normal to hide a gun INSIDE one’s chest, but Videodrome somehow makes yanking out your own insides look glamorous.

Vampire Hunter D: This animated cult classic features a dark hero with a talking hand that eats dirt, an agile but wardrobe-impaired heroine, and Dracula exploding someone’s head. Nothing rocks harder than Dracula exploding someone’s head, and as such, it occurs only once in this movie. This, for those keeping score, is exactly one more time than every other movie ever. Vampire Hunter D a lot like Titanic, only with vampires and lots of killing. Fun for the whole family over 18.

After hearing about all these choice films, if you’re still thinking about going to some lame party and getting drunk this Halloween, consider this: Waking up next to one of these movies the following morning does not require you to awkwardly ask for its phone number. Happy Halloween!