Your weekend box-office champion? Hannah fucking Montana. Seriously.
I blame this whole ‘let’s make movies for tween girls’ trend on Titanic. Thanks a lot, James Cameron. I know you gave us Terminator and Aliens, but… dude, this is all your fault. Your stupidly long, boring, 3-hour ode to effeminate artists who drown in the North Atlantic is responsible for the superstardom of the fruit of Billy Ray Cyrus’ loins. Great job!
This is all your fault, parents of daughters. I find it interesting that, over at Den of Geek, it’s mostly male commenters, and mostly dads of daughters within the Hannah Montana sphere of interest who express their dismay over the phenomenon. No moms, wives, or members of the cult of labia have shown up to defend the latest bit of pseudo-girl power fluff. I feel bad for all dads with daughters, but respect their ability to put up with this horrible fate.
Thank God, yet again, that I don’t have any kids (that I know about). If I ever have a daughter, she’d better love zombies and cheesy sci-fi, otherwise I’m in serious trouble. Wake me up when she grows a mullet and starts covering her dad’s greatest hits, or when she ‘accidentally’ releases a sex tape on the internet in a couple of years to resurrect her flaccid career.
Author’s Note: In middle school, one of the things we did in gym class was learn to line dance. We learned the electric slide (so I can fit in with black people) and the Achy Breaky (so I can fit in with trailer park get-togethers). This is why I don’t dance in public, except at lesbian bars with Jonathan Richman. The shame of forcing someone to boot scoot is still palpable.