I, Criticide

Long before I took up residence in Criticidedom, I was a little boy who loved professional wrestling. Nobody led me to it or even suggested it, nor did any mainstream media outlet subliminally infiltrate my pliable young mind. As is the case with most anything that we come to love, I discovered it entirely on my own. But, for all the pageantry and drama that drew me to it, there was one very important detail that kept me engaged beyond all logic:

I thought it was real.

I thought the violence was sincere and the victories legitimate. I thought that every improbable comeback was a testament to the human spirit and that steel folding chairs were the logical weapon of choice. It never occurred to me to question why nobody ever bled, because I was caught up in a delightful illusion; the same sort of illusion that we lose ourselves in whenever we sit down to watch a movie. But, on one gloomy Saturday afternoon, the illusion was broken.

Somebody told me it was fake.

It wasn’t as if they were trying to enhance my enjoyment of professional wrestling. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was a deliberate attempt to hinder my enjoyment. And for the rest of my young life, whenever somebody learned that I enjoyed professional wrestling, I was always presented with the same query: "You know it's fake, right?" It was as if everybody took some sadistic pleasure in bursting my bubble.

At the same time that I grew to love professional wrestling, I was also infatuated with the movies. Of course, I eventually figured out movies were fake, so that wasn’t a concern. We already knew that Christopher Reeve couldn't really fly or that Josh Hartnett can't really act; but that's not the point. It's the illusion that we enjoy, as it should it be. And yet, there is a never ending chorus of bullies standing behind you, each of them desperate to tell you that the movie you watched every Christmas with your parents, the movie you watched when you had your first kiss, the movie your watched at two o'clock in the morning during your first slumber party, the movie you watched in the hospital room the night your first child was born, the movie you watched when your heart was broken, the movie that is forever sewn into the very fabric of your life...

"That movie sucks!"

Not that we asked them for their opinion. No, they’re obliged to do it all on their own—and, don’t worry, they’ll pause in the end, as they await your inevitable gratitude. Of course, the only gratitude they’ll get from this Criticider is a taste of my dusty sneaker as I fit it down their throat. But it's not just movies; there always seems to be somebody who can't wait to tell you that whatever it is you love sucks and you suck for loving it. Well their parade-raining-rhetoric will no longer go unpoliced, not on this blogesphere.

So, for all those who are tired of hearing that NASCAR isn’t a sport and Tiger Woods isn’t really black:

I Criticide.

For all those who are tired of hearing that Dane Cook isn’t funny and Monty Python are comic geniuses:

I Criticide.

For all those who are tired of hearing that hairy pits aren’t sexy and gay sex is for homosexuals:

I Criticide.

And for all those who are tired of hearing that all good movies go to Oscar heaven and film critics are just doing their job:

I Criticide.