Hey! Hello in there! Hey, what’s so important? What’cha got here that’s worth living for?
All that I need to know in life I’ve learned from movies. However, asking a Mostly-Dead man such a tough question is pretty unfair. Most Not-Even-Somewhat-Dead people can’t answer that question on the spot. Trust Westly, the man in black, the Dread Pirate Roberts, to nail it on the first try. While Mostly-Dead.
Though that is one of the few parts in The Princess Bride that I don’t at all jive with. Okay, so Westly answers Miracle Max with, “True love.” But who the fuck would love Buttercup? Not only is she marrying some other guy, but she is fucking miserable for the entire movie. What a terrible character! Fuck, I would prefer to marry Inigo, motivated my revenge, or Fezzik, motivated by friendship and love, than Buttercup. Why is he so in love with this bitch?
Consider the following: Buttercup bosses Westly around incessantly in the beginning of the movie. Apparently Westly is already in love with her at this point and this bossing does not deter him. Why the fuck not? She is being mean! Has he no foresight? This will come back to haunt you after the passion has died. Believe me, man, I’ve been there.
Next: She agrees to marry Prince What’s-His-Fuck. Why? Because “according to the law of the land, he can choose any bride he wants”? Are Florin and Guilder code for Saudi Arabia and medieval France? And she takes it? Balls.
Next: “Will you promise not to hurt him?” Once they escape from the fire swamp, Westly is ready to fight and if need be to die in order to stay with the one he loves. Buttercup pretty much gives him to a man that she knows she can’t trust. Jesus.
Next: Only AFTER a fucking nightmare about being publicly shamed for her misdeeds does Buttercup realize that she can’t marry Humper-Fuck. It takes her conscious manifesting as an external character (“Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo”) for her to man up and tell Humper-Boy no. And even that she fucks up. She speaks in ultimatums. Either you call off the wedding, or I’ll off myself. How tough is it to counter an ultimatum? We’ve been in Humper-Slut’s shoes before. Just step to the left and parry. Hmm… Cake or Death you say? Well, I’ll have the chicken then. Easy fucking peasy. Whatever peasy is.
Next: At the end of the movie that bitch jumps out the window and falls for like a full thirty seconds. If there is anything that I have learned from Monty Python and the Holy Grail it is this:
Sir Bedevere: There are ways of telling whether she is a witch.
Peasant 1: Are there? Oh well, tell us.
Sir Bedevere: Tell me. What do you do with witches?
Peasant 1: Burn them.
Sir Bedevere: And what do you burn, apart from witches?
Peasant 1: More witches.
Peasant 2: Wood.
Sir Bedevere: Good. Now, why do witches burn?
Peasant 3: ...because they're made of... wood?
Sir Bedevere: Good. So how do you tell whether she is made of wood?
Peasant 1: Build a bridge out of her.
Sir Bedevere: But can you not also build bridges out of stone?
Peasant 1: Oh yeah.
Sir Bedevere: Does wood sink in water?
Peasant 1: No, no, it floats!... It floats! Throw her into the pond!
Sir Bedevere: No, no. What else floats in water?
Peasant 1: Bread.
Peasant 2: Apples.
Peasant 3: Very small rocks.
Peasant 1: Cider.
Peasant 2: Gravy.
Peasant 3: Cherries.
Peasant 1: Mud.
Peasant 2: Churches.
Peasant 3: Lead! Lead!
King Arthur: A Duck.
Sir Bedevere: ...Exactly. So, logically...
Peasant 1: If she weighed the same as a duck... she's made of wood.
Sir Bedevere: And therefore...
Peasant 2: ...A witch!
That bitch floats. She’s a witch. Burn her.
In conclusion, I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s so important. What do I have here that’s worth living for? It would be interesting to have to justify your existence every now and again, even if it was to Billy Crystal dressed up as an ancient Jewish grandmother. I think I’d be able to answer the question. Maybe not if I were put on the spot and Mostly-Dead.
What do I have that’s worth living for? Other people. Unfinished and never to be finished work. Potential. The sheer amount of great films I haven’t yet seen or books I haven’t yet read. All of the experiences I haven’t had yet. All of the places I want to go. All of the things I could begin enthusiastically and end cynically. All of the problems I haven’t solved. All of the Mondays I have yet to hate and all of the Fridays I have yet to enjoy. The kids I want to have. The sorrow and despair I have yet to feel. The videogames I have yet to play. The love I have yet to make. Every grey hair and inevitable lack of hair I have yet to earn. To feel my body begin to lose its grip, and to know that every wrinkle, scar, paunch, and loss of motor control was worth having had those things. All of the music I have yet to listen to. All of the fights I have yet to have.
That kind of stuff and some more.
I wonder if Miracle Max would have brought me back, if my cause would have been worthy enough. Or if I would have grabbed his ass by the throat (strange visual, no?) and demanded my life back.
Jesus balls.
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