Dear Man I Sat Next to at the 3:10pm showing of Wolf of Wall Street at the Regal Cinemas L.A. LIVE Stadium 14,
I know it's very important for you to see Wolf of Wall Street because of the amazing review you read in the New Yorker. I, too, was interested in seeing Martin Scorsese unleash "furious, yet exquisitely controlled, kinetic energy, complete with a plunging and soaring camera," and I wish I could've taken the time to ask you what you thought of the "swirling choreography on a grand scale."
But you were too busy.
By the way, what'd your kid think of Jonah Hill's dick?
You seemed to really enjoy the movie, as evidenced by the way you were rhythmically eating popcorn and nodding along with Leonardo DiCaprio's cronies. I noticed this because I could not keep my eyes off your fucking five year old watching a sex orgy on a yacht. I wish we could have talked about the movie after, but you were too concerned with getting your small child into his coat and, well, I know that's an ordeal. Maybe you were hurrying to the next showing of the new James Franco leather film? I hear there's lots of dick but much less blow in that one.
My main concern here is that I'm pretty sure your child didn't even enjoy the movie. I want to believe that the only reason you would bring a five year old to see the filthiest film of the year that's not actual porn is because he's the boss in your relationship and bullied you into taking him. Hey, maybe he's interested in considering the feminist implications of such a film? Or perhaps we're dealing with a tiny genius who's studying Scorsese in hopes of getting into NYU film on full scholarship next year? Hold up, do you have the number for the MacArthur grant people? They should probably be in on this.
But when I saw him doze off during the scene where a woman has her head shaved in order to afford breast implants, I became worried that seeing this movie was more about you than it was about him.
As I observed you gulping your 154-ounce Coke product before passing it to a child who probably doesn't even know how to read yet, I thought, you know, here is a person who could use a holiday wish. And here is my wish for you: I wish for you to grow a fucking brain so that your child can develop harm-free.
Listen, despite the fact that the New Yorker is blowing so much smoke up Martin Scorsese's ass that he could be the house in UP, this was a great, great movie. It was gritty, insightful, and thought-provoking. It was also a festival of swears and Leonardo DiCaprio snorting blow out of a woman's butthole. YOUR KID IS FIVE YEARS OLD! HE HAD TO SIT ON A PILE OF OLD COATS TO SEE THE SCREEN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
I spent last weekend hanging out with a five year old. Let me tell you what five year olds do. Five year olds watch the same episode of the Powerpuff Girls fifty times in a row and cover everything in your house with stickers. Now I'll tell you what five year olds don't (should't) do: they don't watch Matthew McConaughey deliver a ten minute soliloquy about stroking his dick. Believe it or not, they're not as into watching junior brokers get whipped by topless women as you are.
Or how about: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? Why would you ever bring a five-year-old to an R-rated movie (that was almost NC-17; like the comparatively tame/less ridiculous Showgirls)? You know what, it's not even about the movie. It's about the fact that you're bringing a KINDERGARTENER to an inappropriate venue because you just don't give a shit.
You can't front a baby sitter? Stay the fuck home and watch The Wire; there's lots of blow there, too. When the kid goes to sleep, pop in a fucking VHS of Glengarry Glen Ross and call it a day. Hey, Wolf of Wall Street will be out on DVD in a month or two, and then you can get watch Leo and Jonah pop qualudes and get their wangs sucked until the cows come home. (Cows coming home is basically the only thing that doesn't happen in this movie.)
Your belated secret Santa Laura