Flush It Friday: An Open Letter to the Movie Clapper
On Friday afternoons we release our anger and replace it with ultimate radness. Join us!
I’d like to issue my flush as something of an open letter to The Guy That Claps At The End Of Movies — a distant relative of The Guy Who Laughs Immoderately Loudly So The Whole Theater Knows They Got The Joke (they didn’t get the joke) that infests movie theaters around the globe. I think.
Have you ever taken a step back and thought about why you’re doing that? I have, so I’m going to do what I do best — tell people why they do things with no qualifications and no supporting evidence whatsoever.
Applause as a custom may be as old as humanity itself, varied in modus operandi but singular in intent; to voice approval or admiration. The ancient Roman convention called for a wide spectrum of applause (ranging from finger snapping to flinging their fucking togas around) signifying varying degrees or approval. This was meant as a gesture towards performers during their public performances.
For performers. During their public performances.
You know that long list of names after the movie that you can’t really read because they go too fast and because you can’t really read? Those are called credits, and they include every single person involved in the making of the film. Guess how many of them are in the theater with you. None of them are in the fucking theater with you.
But that’s okay, because you’re not really clapping for them, are you? You’re clapping for yourself. You liked this movie. And everyone should know about it. You see a packed theater as an opportunity to suck attention from a mass of people who are stuck with you until the lines file out. And so you stand erect and clap, virtually throbbing with pride that a group of strangers knows that you exist, attempting to make a multi-million dollar movie-making endeavor all about you.
While we’re all very impressed that you managed to hear a word of the dialogue over the sound of yourself breathing or eating an apparently endless tub of hard candies with your mouth wide open, do fuck off.
Anyways, stop it. Or don’t. Enjoy those precious moments of delusional glory if you must. Deep down you have to know that the only thing significant about you is how awful you are; like a microscopic fleck of fecal matter on the toothbrush of the public.
ON A BETTER NOTE: *flush* all that. Let’s move on to something positive: PLINK, a frighteningly addictive multiplayer music experience that — and this was the selling point for me — is so easy an idiot could play it. Thanks to HessianHunter, your editors and writers spent truly distressing amounts of time meeting up and bringing the hardest fucking jams known to man instead of doing other, more important things.
Don’t know where to start? Our fearless leader Joe took the liberty of recording one of his first sessions for you. Unfortunately his audio equipment wasn’t working when we were all laying down the most ultimate jam in the history of jams together, so you’ll have to watch him dicking around with some nobodies. Check it out:
GO HERE to start a rad sesh, and air your grievances in the comments (make sure to follow it up with something positive). Also, open swim. Byah!