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The Colonel's Son

You’re not going to believe this, but last night, at about 4 a.m., I saw a movie on TV that could have been my biography or my autobiography or a summary of my days on this bitch of a planet. It scared me so fucking shitless I tell you I just about fell off my chair.

I could tell straight away it was a bad film, or the sort we call bad – poor fools that we are – because the actors aren’t much good and the director’s not much good and the cretinous special-effects guys are pretty hopeless too. But really it was just a very low-budget film, pure B-grade schlock. What I mean, just to be perfectly clear, is a film that cost about four euros or five dollars. I don’t know who had to get laid to raise the money, but I can tell you that all the producer shelled out was a bit of small change, and they had to make do with that.

I can’t even remember the title, really I can’t, but I’ll go to my grave calling it The Colonel’s Son, and I swear it was the most democratic, the most revolutionary film I’d seen in ages, and I don’t say that because the film in itself revolutionized anything; not at all, it was pathetic really, full of clichés and tired devices, prejudices and stereotypes, and yet at the same time, every frame was infused with and gave off a revolutionary atmosphere, or rather an atmosphere in which you could sense the revolution, not in its totality, but a fragment, a microscopic fragment of the revolution, as if you were watching Jurassic Park, except the dinosaurs never showed, no, I mean as if it was Jurassic Park and no one ever even mentioned the fucking reptiles, but their presence was inescapable and unbearably oppressive.

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