Road House, I

In honor of Filmvetter giving Road House 5 stars (because he can't give 6!), I will be re-posting stuff about Road House throughout the afternoon. You're welcome, Earth!

From January 2009:

Is it even possible to have a movie more implausibly, ridiculously dumb than Road House? I mean for fuck's sake; both times I've watched it in the last 16 hours I've found myself asking "are they TRYING to top Rob Lowe's shit-tastic lines from St. Elmo's Fire every time someone opens their mouth???!!!" Unreal. The sheer number of things that just don't make any fucking sense in this flick could carry a daily blog for YEARS.

For instance, it's always rankled me how the women dress. Here they are, going to some fucking podunk barn in the backwoods of some small town in Missouri, and they all wear cocktail dresses. Huh?

"Yo babe, let's hit the Deuce tonight."
"Okay...what're you gonna wear?"
"I guess I'll wear my oil-stained wife-beater, maybe a flannel in case I need to soak up some blood after the first few tables get smashed to powder over my mullet."
"Ooooooh, sounds like I finally have a chance to wear my newest Sonia Rykiel mini with puffed shoulders...pick me up at the hairdresser after 5 hours?"
"You got it babe" (ass slap)
Oh yeah, and somehow in this tiny shit town the ratio of smoking hot chicks to actual humans seems to be about 50 to 1. The doors of the Deuce open and all of a sudden it's FLOODED with chicks from Playboy who are juuuuuuuuuuuuuuust looking to fuck! If Joe Francis could go back in time, this is where he'd go. Unreal.