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March 09, 2006: The Producers (2005) (4 stars)
The Producers (2005)
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Mecha's blurb below contains some pretty juicy profanity. If you still want to read it, just hover your mouse pointer over the big orangey box (unless you have javascript disabled in your browser, in which case the big orangey box will stay orangey and you will have to click and drag to select the text and make it readable).

Ordinarily we wouldn't be cussin' on Four Panels, or using ugly orangey boxes either, but in this case the language is somewhat central to the anecdotes at hand, and the orangey box is the best way I could think of to hide it from sensitive eyes.

The events in this comic are directly drawn from my own experience; I have the unfortunate habit of singing aloud songs that get stuck in my head, and even worse, they tend to be songs I shouldn't be singing in public at all. Perhaps you've heard of the Silence of the Lambs parody musical? One of the catchiest tunes in this highly off-color work is based on the obscene taunting Clarice has to endure from an inmate when she first goes to see Dr. Lecter (namely, "I can smell your cunt"). The songwriters thought this would make for a good faux love song, with Lecter pining for Clarice, singing, in particular:

"If I could smell her cunt...
I'd be reborn, a man but more humane
I'd regain my grasp on sanity,
I bet she smells like tuna fish!"

You get the idea. Anyway, that particular song was the one that chose to get wedged in my brain one day as I walked across the campus of Indiana University (between the Registrar's office and the Student Building, for those who may know the area), and I found myself singing, expletives and all, as I walked to my bus stop in the sunny afternoon with other students all around. I sincerely hope none of them actually heard me.

This was hardly the only time my bad habit got me into trouble, though. One night a few months ago I was watching Bulworth on cable, and got hungry for a snack. I cruised on over to Taco Bell in my old POS car, and as I was driving I noticed I had a piece of one of his raps about the way government really works chanting in my brain; naturally, it was the most offensive section I could possibly latch onto, and I struggled mightily not to sing it out loud. I got to the drive thru's speaker, and placed my order, but after doing so, momentarily distracted by car-matters of some sort, as I started to pull away from the pleasant and most definitely feminine voice over the metal box, I began to sing. Sing, as Warren Beatty did.

Sing how it was 'All about the pussy'.

I did this quite loudly. Banging on the steering wheel.

I could barely face the woman to hand over my money. To an outside observer, I'm sure the whole situation would have been *hilarious*.

(In the interests of complete humor-spoiling honesty, I don't know if she heard me either, that cold night at Taco Bell. But she *could* have. If so, I got no indication. My luck can't last forever, though; eventually I'm going to have an angry mob on my heels over some song.)
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