This week marks the official start of Oscar Season, as Gone Girl is the first Oscar contender this year that anyone is taking seriously. To mark the occasion, we have an exclusive, spoilerific advice column from Gone Girl's very own "Amazing" Amy Dunne. Following that, Martin R. "Vargo" Schneider brings you all the spooks and spectres of Annabelle, Libby "Gentleman Loser" Cudmore examines what's leftover from the Nicolas Cage-filled remake of Left Behind, Ashley "TwistedLadder" Herald discovers another Christian film titled The Song, and Joseph "Jay Dub" Wade wallows in the white guilt of The Good Lie.
I don't know how to tell my friends not to spoil movies I haven't seen yet! How do I get them to stop?
Unspoiled in Carthage, MS
Suck it up. I love spoilers, and there's gonna be a lot in today's column.
I've been dating my boyfriend for eight years now, and we're not even engaged. But every time I see a baby on the street, I feel my biological clock tick-tick-ticking. Unfortunately, he's not ready to commit, much less be a father. (He's so paranoid, he insists on using a condom, even though I'm on Seasonale.) But I'm ready. I'm more than ready. Do you think it's time for us to talk?
Unpregnant in Carthage, MS
You said he insists on using a condom. That's good news! Lemme tell you why. No one's forcing you to take birth control (although I'd still flush one per day in case he gets suspicious). Count two weeks back from the start of your next period. On that day, and for five days after, insist on having sex as often as possible. Once he's asleep, turn that condom inside out. Bam! You've got a golden ticket to a veritable fountain of baby juice, even if you might have to do a little squeegeeing to get a workable amount. I'll let you figure out how to handle it from here. Hint: it involves a turkey baster and a little KY. If he asks any questions, remind him that all birth control has a failure rate, then slam your own head into a bannister, and threaten to tell everyone he hit you for getting pregnant. He'll have no choice but to stay with you. Best of luck!
Last week, at the height of an argument, my hubby slammed my face against the wall and called me a cunt. Immediately, I packed my things and headed off to the women's shelter, but I'm wondering if there was another way to handle that situation.
Unbecunted in Carthage, MS
Oh, Unbecunted, I'm a little disappointed in you. A women's shelter? You don't want to be one of those women, do you? I know I sure don't! So let's rewind this a little bit. He slams your face against the wall and calls you a cunt? Here's what you should've said: "I'm the cunt you married." Good one, right? That kind of zinger is the steppingstone to a healthier marriage, one built on violence and mutual distrust.
I never thought I'd write these words, but... MY HUSBAND IS CHEATING ON ME. The man of my dreams has turned those dreams to ash, our mutual trust dispersing like so many sugar storms. I want to confront him about it, and possibly work out our marriage, but I just don't know how to approach him. What should I do?
Uncertain in Carthage, MS
Confrontation is for the weak. So is divorce. Near as I can tell, you have one option: frame him for your murder. When people see he brutally murdered his wife, they'll all see him for the monster you know him to be. Lucky for you, all you need is a blank journal, a handful of pens, a little rubber tubing, and a few common household items.
Step 1: Backdate your journal to the day you met and write about how awesome he is.
Step 2: As you work forward, gradually hint that he may have a violent streak. It's important to use different pens here, to avoid the impression that you wrote it all in one sitting. That's the first thing police would suspect because it's not like people who journal have favorite pens.
Step 3: Bleed yourself, a little at a time. This will come in handy when you're staging the crime scene later. Freeze the blood. Or refrigerate it. Or keep it in the pantry. It's not like forensic techs can tell how fresh your blood is.
Step 4: Steal some urine from a pregnant friend. This step is optional because even I'm not sure how the FUCK you could use this to your advantage. Forensic techs can definitely test your blood for hCG. And they'd do that long before they'd subpoena your medical records. But, you know, go ahead and get a positive pregnancy test on file. It can't hurt!
Step 5: Once you've gotten to the point in your journal where "this man may kill me" is the organic conclusion to an entry, it's time to put this plan into action! Throw blood around your kitchen like you're in Sweeney Todd and make only a cursory effort to wipe it up. You want the blood to show in a Luminol sweep, so it looks like he did it and, lazy man that he is, took a swipe at it with a little bit of 409 and the Swiffer. Then, leave your diary in an obvious (but not too obvious) place so police are guaranteed to find it!
Step 6: Drive around a while and bloviate to no one. Your plan is fucking sweet, and people need to know, even if your audience is none but a lonely psychic blindsided by your errant transmissions.
Step 7: Drown yourself in the nearest lake or river.
I'll be honest, dying is a pretty significant drawback. But who wants to live if they can't work things out with a lying, cheating idiot?
I'm writing a novel and I feel like maybe it's just a touch too breezy. How can I give it some thematic heft?
Unliterary in Carthage, MS
Toss in some shit about the recession. It's still topical! If you really want to connect with readers, remind them that homeless people are scary (BOO!), Entertainment Weekly layoffs are tragedies of Shakespearean proportions, and the sound of a trust fund dwindling is the saddest music in all the world.
After arguing with my husband nonstop for hours last night, I left. With nowhere else to go, and no money for a hotel, I decided to stay at my ex-boyfriend's house. He keeps hitting on me! What should I do?
Unhappy in Carthage, MS
Seduce him, bite him so it looks like self-defense, slash his throat as he comes, and instead of calling the cops, calmly drive home and walk into your husband's arms, covered in blood.
Last week, my boyfriend broke up with me, and I'm having a hard time getting over him. Any advice?
Unloved in Carthage, MS
Tell him to fuck you really hard, until you're good and bruised. Then tell the police you were raped. Duh.
Pictured: The intended result.Dear Amy,
My husband and I are about to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. Thing is, I always feel like I put more effort into finding a thoughtful -
Wrap a length of twine around your wrist and twist it until you bleed. Then tell the police you were raped. Duh.
I keep asking my boyfriend to put the goddamn seat down -
Smear some wine on your undies and run around, screaming, in front of a surveillance camera. Then tell the police you were raped. Duh.
Dear Amy -
Shove a wine bottle up your ass and thrust until you can no longer walk. Then tell the police you were raped. Duh. Look, I don't know why I have to repeat myself. This should be your go-to solution. Consider all other advice to be a sound Plan B. Why? Because the cops never ignore rape victims, and accused rapists are always, always convicted on the strength of the victim's testimony.
I'm currently dating a men's rights activist, and that kind of guy's a real keeper in this age of nervous, post-feminist men. Trouble is, you can only go to the putt-putt course so many times before the little plastic gnomes begin to haunt your dreams. Do you have any fun date night ideas?
Unliberated in Carthage, MS
Ask him, politely and sweetly, to take you to go see Gone Girl. You can thank me later.
|In No Way Does the Movie About Me Play on Shitty Cultural Assumptions About Rape||10/10|
|I Now Have a Fetish for Doogie Howser's Bloody Dick||10/10|
|I Now Have a Fetish for a Quarter of the Head of Batman's Dick||10/10|
|Where Was David Fincher? Not Directing, That's for Sure!||-15/10|
|I'm A Total Sociopath. Even as a Puppetmaster, Nothing I Do Makes Any Sense Whatsoever.||-15/10|
I only tolerate movies because they contain movie scenes, which I love.
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