Category: UPSETTING DAY
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Upsetting Day: Wake in Fright đźŚ
Just after midnight, outside the last Tower Records in existence, deep in the bowels of one of Wuhan’s apartment cities, a lonely, pixelated saxophone plays. Rifling through his yellow plastic bag and grasping at hope is a desperate man on his way to nowhere. He’s got a date with a black box the size of a stack of pizzas. He just bought…laserdiscs in the rain.
This is of course the ongoing column-within-a-column where I dissect weird movies my Dad made me watch way too young because he was excited to have scored the laserdiscs. DVDs in the snow has been suspended; apologies to its many fans.
When the pater familias sat me and my brother down to choke on today’s film, he said it was “a cult classic” and “represented Australia perfectly.” I was already old enough to know that meant desolation and scorpion toxin- six – but what I hadn’t counted on was how little else there really is to the continent.
This movie represents Australia perfectly the same way vegemite represents Australia perfectly: by being disgusting and baffling anyone raised in a society. To this day, every time someone tells me a film “perfectly encapsulates Australia” that seems to be code for lots of shots of empty hellscape and people being unrepentantly brutal to one another. Sometimes Guy Pearce is there.
1971’s Wake In Fright falls squarely into one of my Dad’s favorite laserdisc subgenres, “imported foreign movies where nothing happens.” You spend the entire first half of the movie waiting for a plot to spin up before realizing “oh, wait, him rambling around talking to dipshits is the plot.” But unlike your average early ’70s hippie bullshit snoozer, Wake In Fright has the added benefit of making you feel greasy and scummy the entire time, like a movie made entirely of Ren & Stimpy extreme closeups.
This climaxes in a sequence so shocking I’m going to talk about it later to force you to read the whole article (here’s a hint: piles of dead kangaroos!).
In a nutshell, Wake in Fright tells the story of what happens when you’re broke and wasted in the Australian outback, but with a little less sandy penetration than you’re imagining.
The opening sequence takes place at a schoolhouse so remote that if you order DoorDash to it it costs you your firstborn child and several liters of blood (plus convenience fee). The school and the hotel that comprise the town duel across some railroad tracks over who can be dumpier, and both win. Then we find out the movie is based on a book, so you know you’re in trouble.
Like our protagonist, a shitty schoolteacher who gets waylaid by yokels while on his way back to Sydney to meet his girlfriend, the film takes a number of leisurely pit stops to soak up local color, by which I primarily mean a bar where people bet on coin tosses and treat it like a goddamn fight club.
Really, I can’t stress enough that a full twenty minutes of this acclaimed movie is watching people toss coins, bet on whether the coins will come up heads or tails, and then process those bets. It’s like if Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead was sent by England to colonize aboriginal land.
This was the point in the movie I remember asking Dad if we really had to watch this on my birthday, to which he replied “twice because you just talked.” As for the rest of Acts I and II, this lovingly restored masterpiece of Aussie cinema (or “chunderwuzzer” as they call it) is essentially one long beer commercial, which also feels achingly right.
The teacher gets a couple beers at his hotel, takes a train and has some train beer with the train people, then heads to a bar for a couple beers. To establish that he loves his girlfriend, we even get a flashback where he rubs a beer lovingly on her titties.
Australia, if you’re trying to communicate that you all have to piss very badly most of the time, I’m reading you loud and clear. Speaking of clear, that’s the same color this guy’s pee has never been. The one time he does drink water, it’s from a single water glass that the whole train shares, because Australia is a primitive land where water is scarce and backwash belongs to the community.
After he gambles away all his money, he goes on a drunken bender through the outback meeting a host of colorful hillbillies. It’s like Deliverance but if there was no rape and no one was forcing you to do it, you’re just an asshole who wants to gawp at yokels. Yet even though no humans die, Wake in Fright somehow feels so much grosser than Deliverance that the yokels from Deliverance probably use it as training material.
Somewhere along the way he shares a meal with Donald Pleasence, which I bring up because the steak cost a dollar and came with fries and unlimited free coffee. This comprises the most pleasant concept presented in the film.
Despite this largesse, it’s impossible to come away without the impression that Australians are a sad and violent cadre of drunken wastrels scrabbling in the dirt like dogs just to forget their awful lives for one fleeting moment. People keep asking us “don’t you like it here?” like those Twilight Zone folks who had to stay positive all the time. Also, their accents are so thick that the movie sometimes has subtitles even though they’re speaking English, or at least their pitiable approximation of it, mate.
The teacher whose name escapes me takes a brief pause from downing beers like shots to try and cheat on his girlfriend, the ale-tittied one, but is saved from infidelity by the fact that the second he gets his pants undone he fully vomits the entire contents of his stomach right by the lady’s head. This is, I’m going to assume now and forever, how all Australians make love. Finally, a lovemaking scene I can show to my wife and say “See? It’s normal!”
Empty and therefore ready for more beer, our hero heads back inside and we spend ten minutes on a montage of the evening’s entertainment, which is betting on when a pregnant dog will pop and waterboarding Donald Pleasence with beer while he stands on his head – you know, party stuff.
The climax of the movie comes later that night when he goes out into the brush with some buddies. Things start off strong when it appears that the ghostbusters have arrived.
Unfortunately, we find out it’s the Australian ghostbusters, by which I mean drunken assholes hunting kangaroo. They kill one baby kanga with a hunting dog, one with their car, and one with a gun, like trying to rack up a combo multiplier in a Tony Hawk game.
Then they just generally massacre kangaroos with rifles for so long that it goes from day to night and you forget what the rest of the movie was about, before bitterly remembering it was nothing and you’ve wasted yet more of your precious life.
Speaking of wasted life, the footage of murdered roos is actually just…real footage of guys murdering kangaroos. The film crew tagged along with some hunters because it was cheaper than effects, and I suspect this is the only reason the movie’s still talked about. This was what weirdos had to watch before the advent of rotten.com.
As a result, we’re treated to dead and dying kangaroos shot multiple times, entrails out, pouches ritually defiled, the works. The film crew was actually so disgusted by the drunken hunters that they faked an equipment failure to end the night early. What’s incredible, though, is that just after experiencing that, they decided making a bunch of other people experience it would be cool too. Hey, so did I! Here’s a man wrestling with a kangaroo until he’s able to slit its throat.
That’s also the part where Dad leaned over to me and repeated “Cult. Classic.” I settled into my oshkosh and sipped a juicebox apprehensively. This movie makes you feel gross all the way down, like a turd wrapped in boogers. Then it proudly proclaims to be representing what Australia’s really like, and I have no reason to question that except for the lack of venomous scorpions.
Our guy ultimately does one smart thing and tries to shoot himself in the head to get out of Australia, but instead he wakes up in the hospital, presumably with a beer IV, and the doctors call it an accident.
The key takeaway here is that no one made this man do these things. The movie acts like he’s stuck in Hell, but he could hop a train out of there at any time, he just chooses not to. He wrestles and sleeps in shit and flies and then goes home; that’s the whole plot. At the end he just goes back to being a schoolteacher and tells his pal about what amounts to his Wild Spring Break.
You did it, Wake in Fright. I fear Australia. I fear her and her half-formed progeny. Between this, The Proposition and Fury Road, I believe Australia may be the literal gateway to the underworld, and I hope I never set foot in her until I’m finally called home to her cursed shores for my wicked deeds. Additionally, g’day to any Aussie fans out there!
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Kyle Campbell, who fought extra hard in every boxing match he’s had against a kangaroo purely out of spite for the animal.
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Best of 2023 – Lydia Bugg
Lydia Bugg has had a very Upsetting 2023. Well, we all have. We’ll be more specific: 2023 is the year Lydia earned the coveted Most Enemies Award in this year’s Weenie’s! All of Lydia’s Hot Dog Enemies, from Revelation Road Director Gabriel Sabloff to followers of the boring ghost prophet Seth, can only hate her half as much as we love her. And that’s a lot! Holy shit, watch your back, Liddy.
You know what the teens love, but don’t get enough of? Wuthering Heights. You know what else the teens love, but don’t get enough of? James Caan. That’s right, teens: Rollerball’s James Caan. Undercover Grandpa’s James Caan! Together at last with Wuthering Heights! Just like you teens asked for!
Lydia’s first and most mystifying nemesis, Nathen Mazri, is not done going completely mad. Going completely mad, you see, is a process. One simply cannot go completely mad all at once. First you must overcommit to a shady licensing scam, be spurned by a cartoon cat, disassociate entirely and come back as your own cartoon cat, and then forecast the apocalypse. That’s Nathfield. And that’s how you go completely mad.
Hey what if we did Quibi but it was super horny and entirely microtransactions? That’s Reel Short TV, the scam romance TV app responsible for more bill fights than Duck Wars!
Upsetting Day: TikTok Shrimp Dance Man
TikTok Shrimp Dance Man! TikTok! Shrimp! Dance! Man! Every word less erotic than the last, he’s the only man who dances shrimp, sexually of course, in and around your mouth for the applause of strangers!
Hey look, our very own Liddy Bugg actually found the devil. He produced this reality show about strange, untrustworthy men competing to impregnate a desperate woman. You owe Lydia one wish, Scratch! She has guessed your disguise, those are the rules!
No one. I’m not sure this book exists.
I feel weight, and see text. The pages smell like unwashed fur and embalming fluid. The Little Free Library outside my lair has a paperback-sized gap. Yet 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers is not there.
The lack of names on the front, side, or back stands out. A little pride’s natural, even if you list it next to murder as a sin. People autograph madness, hate speech, criminal confessions, and guides to mixing all three. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers, at a glance, comes from the aether.
But the authors exist: 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers emerged in 2019, before automated plagiarism bloomed. This is handcrafted air. The legalese page credits Michelle Cox, Sylvia Schroeder, Lori Brown, Linda Gilden, and Edie Melson as “composers.” Solid word choice. “Writers” feels strong.
As for the cover? Pay artists. Just do it. They train to spare your dignity. No design student would let that clip art touch a printer.
If you were raised to honor pets, or even God, you’ve got the concept. But the intro’s worthwhile for parasite-free readers. Parasites from cats, I’m not Bill Maher. Unless you’re with HBO.
About ten minutes ago, we retired “Please drown my wife” jokes. I think cats absorbed that wink-nudge anger. It had to be someone; Honeymooners punchlines are a constant. Next time you see an overfed Birman, thank them for preserving the balance.
Back to our premise. For a full book. 160 pages of text, spread across a human year.
You might not be panicking yet. Welcome to the site! We celebrate offbeat media, personal favorites, and the guttural screams of the unsane. This is a personal favorite.
52 Devotions for Cat Lovers has a simple task: improvise cat stories, and staple-gun Bible quotes to them. You could do it. I’ve taught students at every level of drive, ability, and fluency. You could, barring allergies, write this in a week. This effort has five composers, determined to change hearts.
It doesn’t go well.
Here’s our opener. The starting gun for January 1, 2020. God’s balm for nightmare hangovers and the normal year that followed.
Note: I’m skipping all the Bible quotes. They’re fine. The book’s eaten enough empires for a clean edit. Try the second half for drama, and the first half for frog rain. If there isn’t a Wicked-style POV flip about Delilah, someone at Penguin is slacking.
I’ve never heard a softer customer rageout, so these must be clean stories. On that curve, this is devastating. This brute’s clearly unsaved by Bast Jesus. But why target Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie? After all, they take equal pride in their customer service and dialogue.
It’s cats. The answer’s always cats. Even when it should be Christ or Satan, it’s cats. Before we’re done, you’ll wish this book featured twice the brainwashing and half the fur. Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie don’t have Eric Ludy’s open hatred of people that fuck. They have cats.
A clever reverse-strawman might say “that happened.” Don’t bother. It’s a waste of neurons. You won’t make it to February questioning the composers’ honesty. Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie are all about emotional truth, which the flamewar scorecard says is good now.
How do we powerslam that into faith? Poorly, like a county fair deathmatch.
I didn’t cut a word between quotes. The best tracts skip transitions to leave room for His Light. I call it “thinking in tongues.” It’s how “love thy neighbor” cuts to “let’s jumpstart the apocalypse.”
Thinking in tongues works in other genres: if you watched closely, the Holy Spirit turned Daenerys into Albino Atilla, and wove years of conflict between Arya and the Night King. For we are sinful, and have left the bowls of our betters empty.
They’re into lions, I’m on-topic.
Then there’s the stinger. Two sections that redefine effort:
Dog portraits would make better padding. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers is four lazy cash-ins duct-taped together, and two are stolen. It is, by default, duller than letting a cat sleep on the keyboard. That’s where most horror sequels come from.
If you’re into God, stories, or customer service, you’ve been insulted. None of those matter in publishing, so I’m laughing like the middle hyena. I may be the composers’ first fan.
“Paws to think” isn’t a one-off pun. Those words hit me 52 times. This is my first column with hazard pay. I almost called it “Pet Seminary” to continue the cycle.
In fact, your lives are still too easy. Here are some other Devotion titles:
Fantastic move. Hell is mostly puns.
The book’s voices are distinct: two members of Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie love puns. The other three love money. Church gets a few nods too, but there’s tangible passion for wordplay and retirement.
All five like fun facts. Leading to Sources for Fun Facts, the first bibliography I’ve read of my own free will. It’s a classy turn: a good Works Cited page separates plagiarism and still plagiarism. Here’s the truncated list of scholars:
In the composers’ defense, 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers overlapped with Buzzfeed’s longform journalism phase. That, like groundwater, died in a shareholder meeting. I hope you’ve prepped for Mad Max instead of Waterworld.
Note Quora. Where any of us can contest the moon landing and beat Buzz Aldrin in views, replies, and lives changed. Points to Shittier Askreddit for outliving arena rap and home ownership.
Now that we’re 950 words in, a second example might help. Most devotions cover unremarkable cats, but some remarkable owners sneak in.
Pierre. Cute. I finally understand Civ V’s culture victory: it’s conquering Earth and getting “fussy” as your stereotype. Let’s see how this child handles a Ming vase with feelings.
Now that’s adorable neglect. I came in expecting Chastity Garfield, not LMG: Into the MatchstickVerse.
“Disappeared” means expired. Bit it. Died freezing. Fox put starlets on farms for ratings, not mountain trails in the dead of winter. That ends in a high-fashion Lord of the Flies, and dibs. My idea. Mine. Yellowjackets meets Zoolander is money. Enough for me to forget this expensive cat starving to death.
A fine ad for apostasy, or at least PETA. How’s this lead to mass?
Great message, on its own. Today’s underdog is an emaciated popsicle. And Pierre’s traits were on the outside. His label said “I am a Warrior Cats jobber. Leave me in the cold, and I will die.” He still got a permafrost taxidermy. Pierre’s story is like Goliath stomping David into a closed casket funeral.
Maybe Buzzfeed can bring this home.
You know what? Points for relevance. Half the trivia says “try not to feed cats chocolate,” as if Easter snacks aren’t for the whole family. Or complete inania:
While 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers centers cat worship, the resentment subplot persists. Some sinners don’t deserve statues. There’s Shadow, who simply watches mice instead of culling them. He represents ignoring donation buckets, evening mass, and lonely pastors. Or Callie, who…kills too many mice. How much murder does God want? Why can’t I kill in peace?
Alright, fair enough. To impress God, don’t try to impress God. Take the Bruce Lee route and pray without praying. You might think Callie deserves a break, but St. Peter has other opinions.
Finally, consider Mr. Fritzy.
Is there another kind of cat? You don’t really have to like something much to be obsessed with it, do you? That explains dating coaches.
Aloofness and fur sound like every cat alive. But, based on my sales, I can be wrong.
Ah. Mr. Fritzy is the first cat in hell. I enjoy cats a sane amount, so I’m glad we’ll have one downstairs. We can hang when demons aren’t feeding me my eyes.
What’s wilder: guilt-tripping a cat, guilt-tripping a fourth cat, or guilt-tripping readers by association? I get the intent, and this book needs variety. But hellbound pets are the dumbest way to get there. You’re just adding reactionary voices to your singular fixation. This is a chapel bathroom reader, not a newspaper.
Cat epics only end a few ways: jokes about Mondays, endangered tiger lists, swordfighting Death, and mind-erasing isolation. Three of those take work, so 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers sprints into solitude.
At first, the cat story offers more nothing:
You might forget that as you read it, so the repetition has purpose. Then tension creeps in:
The narrator’s gritted teeth are much more compelling than her non-story. I kept a cat alive long enough to admire this passion. If you don’t feel rejection on your pet’s behalf, do you really love it?
Finally, the despair hits:
Someone check on Michelle. Not the other four, I know it’s Michelle. Pure loneliness demands a stock name. Sylvias and Edies use cats as living props for rich, full lives, annoying a varied social calendar. Virtuoso stereotype fulfillment takes a Michelle. Loving the Unlovable is at least 0.8 Madeas of friendly fire.
Pitch black, misspelled, and perfect. It honestly counts as a poem. For some reason, our narrator keeps running into unlovable people. Almost as if–look! Kittens!
This was never about Christ, cats, or cash. Pet prayers are just the lyrics to dying alone. Loving the Unlovable has a main-event slot, making this psychic scream the book’s point. Five composers wrung heartache from work, friendship, confidence, and pet ownership.
I came looking for a Copeland-adjacent speedbag, and found tears. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers catfished me, and I deserve it. Consider Eric Ludy avenged.
Still, I’m glad something’s here. Most storytellers ask “what makes the audience give a shit?” Budget prophets stop at “God says they have to.” That’s dragging the cart uphill and shooting the horse. Try harder. Changing someone’s spiritual life might take a draft or two.
Don’t let McDonald’s GospelFest fool you: fundies aren’t a captive audience. Bored Christians can read the Book of Judges, featuring one-man graveyards centuries before Lu Bu. Why the fuck should they read about your cat? If they want to taste hell, they can just go to GospelFest.
Though there’s some competition.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Badger who, like the Scottish Fold, knows that humility is currency in the shadow of God.