Okayish romantic comedy—I don’t have any opinions on it, which is why I’m pounding out a review on it late at night. My voice must be heard.
Um…let’s see…a few funny jokes, it was nice to see Julie Andrews again, and Anne Hathaway is a dime. Not that I was swayed by her physical aspect. You might have been, you lech, but as for me…(adjusts bowtie, slicks back hair, applies a spritz of cologne, screams through a megaphone at passing group of women)…I jack it to women with ASPIRATIONS and PERSONALITIES!!! It was a shock (in a “seeing your teacher outside a classroom” way) to see a John Rhys-Davies role where he’s not a dwarf.
But as The Princess Diarrheas Number 2 ended, I was left with a burning question.
Why does Genovia have so many orphans?
A secondary plot point (in a movie which struggles to even have a first plot point) is that Anne Hathaway wants to turn a summer home for the Genovian royalty into a house for the nation’s orphans.
Orphans?
Genovia is described (in the first film) as a country “between France and Spain”. As you’d expect from such a place, characters have names like “John” and “Blake” and everyone speaks in a vague British accent. It appears to be a tax shelter for rich people. Yet it has orphans by the cartload! Racially diverse orphans, too!
Where did they all come from? Was there a Genovian genocide or Holodomor? An ethnic cleansing, purged from the pages of history? Has Anne Hathaway inherited a throne of bones?
I began investigating the issue, and what I uncovered was shocking.
Spoiler: it involves sex and death.
Where Genovia’s Orphans Came From
Let me explain exactly what happened to produce these orphans. It wasn’t pretty.
(Warning: I am about to get explicit. Sensitive readers are advised to adjust their monitor’s gaussian blur so that my words are censored.)
“But the Genova orphans aren’t babies!” You might be arguing, detecting a flaw in my argument. “They’re children.”
Ah, that’s where you need to consider the big picture. Babies don’t stay babies forever. They grow up to be children, and then adults. (Unless you leave them alone in the bathtub because you were watching pro gamer Philip “ImperialHal” Dosen frag the fuck out at the ALGS Grand Finals, then sometimes they don’t quite get there.)
We have every reason to believe that the orphans of Genovia were once babies, which logically necessitates (barring rare cases of parthenogenesis) that sex was involved in their creation.
Yes, it’s disturbing. Yes, we both wish the truth was other than this. But the evidence cannot be ignored, and we need to tackle it head on.
The adorable little plot devices you see in the film were created through sexual intercourse. (!!!)
Your Point? I Already Know How Babies Are Made
Wow, good for you, sweetie! I’m glad you know! Want a pat on the back? A gold star on your homework?
Guess what, buttercup, lots of people don’t know. That’s who this is for! Do you barge into kindergarten spelling lessons and complain to the teacher “stop wasting time, I already know that c is for cat!”
Maybe not everything is for you, hmmmm???
Face it: not everyone lives in your jacuzzi bath of privilege, where you can just know shit any time you want. Some people are born without skin, brains, spinal cords, and exoskeletons. I know a kid who was born with his eyeballs backward. You think you’ve got it rough? His optical nerves are dangling down in front his face like a pair of disturbing tentacles, and his corneas, irises, pupils etc are pointing at the back of his skull. You can imagine how hard it is for him to read. A team of doctors must surgically remove his eyeballs, write a few words in glow-in-the-dark paint against the dark wet bone of his occiputs, then gently reinsert his eyeballs, over and over. They can only fit a few words inside his skull at a time, and reading anything is hellishly slow. His school assigned Moby Dick, and four years later he’s only up to “With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword”. At the rate his his hundreds of surgeries are bankrupting the medical system, it’ll be a million years before that kid learns how babies are made. But one day he’ll be ready, and maybe he’ll learn it from here. That’s who I’m writing this for. For him. The kid with backwards eyeballs. Not you. Get fucked!
In any case, I’m only getting started.
The children are not just any children, they’re orphans. Merriam Webster defines an orphan as…
a child deprived by death of one or usually both parents ex: He became an orphan when his parents died in a car accident.
Also, Merriam Webster offered these as the top most recent searches. US politics is going well, I take it?
To summarize, the parents of these children are D-E-A-D. That’s the bare minimum to qualify as an orphan. No exceptions. “Well, my Mom’s dead and my Dad lost an arm in a logging accident, can I squeak under the wire?” Nope, two dead parents, or GTFO. Yeah, doesn’t sound so good now, does it? Everyone wants that #OrphanGang street cred…until they find out what’s involved.
How did they die? That’s not important. What is important is that when Mia Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldi confronts the teeming orphan krill, she’s confronting adolescent specters of death, catapulted into the earth by rampant fucking. This is the dark underbelly of the Genovian crown.
It’s no surprise Anne Hathaway never returned to the franchise. The erotothanatic compulsion of sex and death invoked by The Princess Diaries is best not dwelled upon for any length of time. Frankly, I’d rather find Mia’s name on the Epstein flight logs.
“Kissing children. Hugging orphans. What a vulgar, low, despicable, political trick!” – John Rhys-Davies
Here at Coagulopath dot com we pride ourselves on staying up to the minute, so let’s discuss the presidency of George Bush.
Bush was a popular and well-liked man who presided over a largely peaceful epoch of American history. Little of note happened in his Presidency.
Yes, he made some mistakes. (Like you’re perfect). He might have meant well when he signed the so-called “No Child Left Behind” Act into law, but I think it’s clear by now that some children should be left behind. Most children, if we’re honest with ourselves.
Bush had a totalizing stranglehold on the entertainment world from 2000 to 2007. He was The Issue. I remember Bush jokes going through a cycle: first they were funny, then they were lame, then they went beyond lame and became funny again, because you assumed the person was attempting ironic anti-comedy. (“That Gilligan’s Island show, huh? If they’re so smart they can build a radio out of a coconut, how come they can’t fix the dang hole in the boat? Who writes this shit? George Bush? Wacka wacka!”)
In 2000, a celebrity’s street cred hinged on one thing: can I find a quote of them threatening to bloodily disembowl Bush on the front page of a Google or AltaVista search, yes or no? Midriff-baring teen pop chanteuse Britney Spears sealed her fate as a ditz when she said “I think we should just trust our president in every decision that he makes and we should just support that.” Conversely, every moribund rock band from Ministry to Green Day resurged to a minor comeback by being willing to say “fuck Bush” on record—comebacks that usually burned out years before Bush left office. He tended to outlast his critics.
Bush’s influence on the internet has waned significantly. In 2025, his main legacy to pop culture is the internet meme below: an expression of polite concern while someone (White House Chief of Staff Andy Card) whispers in his ear.
Bush is a fascinating case of how internet memes tend to devour their subject. Call it Bugs Bunny Syndrome. Bugs was a character designed to be charismatic, cool, fun, and interesting—a trickster God, a fast-talking smart-aleck, Loki fused at the medial lobe with Clark Gable. A character designed to survive the ages and never diminishing to anything less than his whole. It didn’t work. The internet swallowed him, then shat out a disgusting corpse. Bugs Bunny’s existence has collapsed to a single frame from a 1941 Bob Clampett short where he looks fat and weird. That’s it. See what time makes of us.
They don’t even call him Bugs Bunny anymore.
So you’ll have to trust me when I say that Bush was more than a pretty face. He was reknowned as an orator. The speeches he delivered will be stared at—not read, *stared at*—for generations to come. He declaimed fearful, awe-inspiring words over the American project. Words to be written in letters as deep as a spear is long on the firestones on the Secret Hill. Words to be read by flickering torchlight on the crumbling walls of an ancient Mayan temple, while the camera pans onto the explorer’s shocked face.
He was a 9th-dan blackbelt of the “Bushism”—a unique rhetorical style that I don’t think anyone else ever mastered. You can Google Bushisms for complete lists. A “just the hits” playlist would include:
“Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.”
“Rarely is the question asked: is our children learning?”
“There’s an old saying in Tennessee—I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee—that says, ‘Fool me once, shame on…shame on you.‘ Fool me—you can’t get fooled again.”
Bush spoke earnest yet odd sentences that were both incredibly funny and uniquely malformed.
“Just like Donald J Trump!” That’s where we part ways, friend. Trump is funny but not particularly earnest. Bush meant every word he misspoke. Also, I’ve often heard people do successful impressions of Trump, but have never heard a successful off-brand Bushism.
Why do I like Bushisms so much?
I think it’s the delivery. George Meyer (writer for The Simpsons) once observed that a true fan of comedy laughs at the setup, not the punchline. You don’t laugh when Homer Simpson knocks over a stack of wineglasses, you laugh when the wineglasses get stacked in the first place (you’re thinking two steps ahead, and know that Homer will soon come blundering into the room.)
Bush is a man who knows 1) what words he should say 2) how they should be said. All the pieces are there…but then the words just come out wrong. Maybe he’s nervous, or maybe he’s mentally retarded. But it’s this mismatch of intent and outcome that makes Bushisms hilarious. You sense the furiously noble intent behind them…and then he fails. He probably stayed up late practicing his speech in front of a mirror, and it still did no good. He furrows his brow, clenches his hands to the stand…and then spews out nonsense. His frustration and failure is palpable, and (to me, at least) hugely relatable.
This is another area where he differs from Trump. Most of Trump’s words provoke a reaction of “what was he even trying to say?”
I do not understand Trump’s words. I do not even think there’s even that much to understand: it’s all just blurted out top-of-the-head shit. He does not plan his speeches, and feels no shame when he misspeaks. You’re kind of a sucker for reading anything into them. Spend thirty seconds thinking about anything Trump says, and that’s half a minute more than Trump did.
When Bush mangled a sentence, you could always see the unmangled version of what he was trying to say, pure and unsullied and unspoken—like a puppy playing in heaven while its Earthly body lies mashed into the road by an eighteen-wheeler. There’s always a smart, dignified version of Bush’s words. This seldom the case for Trump. Take his comments about John McCain to Frank Lunz.
And I supported him, I supported him for president. I raised a million dollars for him. It’s a lot of money. I supported him. He lost, he let us down. He lost. So I’d never liked him as much after that because I don’t like losers. He’s a war hero. (…) He’s a war hero because he was captured. I like people that weren’t captured, okay?
A fairly offensive statement. But what’s interesting is that there’s no possible way it could have not been offensive.
The statement is predicated on Trump’s personal preference being the thing to care about. It’s not a discussion of John McCain’s qualities: it’s a discussion of whether Trump “likes” the man or not. That’s the important thing here at stake here—Trump’s likes and dislikes. He sounds like he’s talking about ice cream flavors.
“He’s a war hero with sprinkles. And I like war heroes without sprinkles. I like war heroes with a chocolate topping, okay?”
There is literally no way Trump’s words could ever not have been a trainwreck. In George Meyer’s The Simpsons metaphor, it’s like if Homer stumbled through a bunch of glasses that were already smashed when they came out of the factory.
Imagine if he’d said the opposite of what he’d said. “I like John McCain, even though he was a loser. He got captured, but I still like him. I like all war heroes equally, even the ones who got captured.” …It’s still barely less offensive!
I find it difficult to imagine Trump’s brain. It must be a scary place. Thoughts get ripped from dendrites and flung screaming into the world like baby birds catapulted out of their nests before their feathers have even dried. Few people are like him. His brain is truly alien. I can’t even compare him to ChatGPT, which has been known to solve high level math problems occasionally.
I find George Bush far more relatable. Donald J Trump is an alien, but George W Bush is the ur-human. Few of us have his gift of rhetoric, but we all know what it’s like to have amazing thoughts and have them come out a disgusting slurry.
Bush is inside us all. We’ve all spiritually looked awkward in a cowboy hat, haven’t we? We’ve all painted a malformed dog or two, metaphorically speaking. We’ve all been figuratively elected by nonliteral hanging chads in some allegorical Palm Beach County of the soul.
This adult animated film (from 1997, re-released by Deaf Crocodile) left me with a question: where has Bill Plympton been all my life?
Well, drawing, obviously (his illustrations were once in every men’s magazine). A better question: where have *I* been all of *his* life? This rocked from beginning to end, and was the most fun I’ve had with a movie in a long time.
I call it an *animated film* with some reservations—Plympton’s drawings are thrillingly dirty and itch like a hair stuck to the inside of your mouth, but they remain *drawings*. There’s little attention spared for the temporal language of animation (timing and anticipation and so on), and it’s largely filmed on threes and fours—characters don’t flow, they jerk and stutter. These cost-saving measures soon become part of the film’s scrappy, relentless charm. It’s a descendant of those extremely early 1910s cartoons (think *Mutt and Jeff* and *Krazy Kat*) that were basically flipbooks of moving images. Plympton’s art has a visibly constructed quality that I quite like. As noted in the accompanying audio commentary, Bill Plympton would often erase a drawing and then redraw on the same sheet, meaning you sometimes see ghosts and afterimages of erased work in the final shot.*
[1]*I was reminded of Will Vinton claymation—the way he doesn’t seem to care that his clay models have fingerprints and bulges and so on. A lot of labor went into it, and that labor is allowed … Continue reading
But animation is great because of one thing, and it’s a thing the film grasps hard enough to draw blood: *you can create anything*. The film is tailor-made to exploit this idea: a newlywed man named Grant is zapped by a radio signal and gains the power to control reality, which has terrible consequences for those around him—particularly his new wife, Keri. Grant’s new “superpower” (I guess) is that all his intrusive thoughts manifest as literal reality. The human brain is an association machine, a demon monkey flinging shit at the wall, and we’ve all had our moments of “thank *fuck* nobody can see the thought I just had.”
Grant has no fucks to thank. Whenever he imagines something—no matter how obscene or bizarre—it just *exists* out in the open. His wife comments that he has “bedroom eyes”, and his face literally transforms into a bedroom (it makes sense in context…kinda). Her breasts remind him of balloons, so he literally can twist them into balloon animals. Throw in some cute songs c/o longtime collaborator Maureen McElheron, and a recurrent steel guitar jag, and that’s the movie. Grant’s innermost fantasies just burst out of him all the time like animals escaping a zoo, leading to all sorts of perversely amusing gags and adventures. There’s a stock B-movie plot about a totalitarian corporation seeking to control Grant’s powers (this is pretty ordinary stuff, and not the movie’s strongest point), but the movie really is just joke after joke after joke.
It gallops at breakneck pace, six laps ahead of the viewer. I kept having to pause because it was overstimulating the living crap out of me. The film is a triumph of quantity as well as quality: so relentless in its attack that it wears you down and then wins you over. Every scene is stuffed with throwaway gags, jags, riffs, and surrealist fancies, all working by the principle Tex Avery perfected in the fifties: just machinegun the audience to death with *every joke idea you’ve got*—even if only 50% of your material lands, you’ve turned the viewer into Swiss cheese. And Plympton can afford to be far more transgressive and foul than Termite Terrace was ever allowed to be. Things that are (mostly) implied in Avery’s work just get drawn outright here.
It’s not just a lunchroom food fight. The film *does* have stuff to say, if you’re in the mood to trowel through penises, feces, and viscera. Like Grant himself, it has hidden depths.
Grant is depicted as a boring square. (Almost literally, his silhouette is a rectangle with a head sticking out.) He is an accountant, vilified since the days of Monty Python and Arthur Pewtie as the most criminally boring profession to exist. He delays his uxorious duties because of work. Is the most boring person you know just a lunatic who’s good at hiding?
This seems like commentary on the animation trade itself, and the odd way it juxtaposes dreams with drudgery. Bill Plympton’s mind is buzzing with some of the wildest and weirdest thoughts ever thunk…but his body is sitting at a desk, pushing a pencil. He’d look like the world’s most boring man if you couldn’t see what he was drawing. The dichotomy of “boring life, wild art” is on full display here, both textually and subtextually. Grant prefers stability and order, but probably for the same reason a lunatic asylum does: because its fundamental nature is chaos. It’s disturbing to Grant (and even to us—*I Married A Strange Person!* could have easily been a horror film) that his life and marriage are being wrecked, not by the dreams of a mad god bent on tormenting him, but by himself. The call is coming from inside the house!
The film’s core is the relationship between Grant and Keri, which is both a self-aware sitcom cliche (complete with meddling in-laws) and unlike any marriage I have seen in any film. Throughout, Keri ponders what to make of her husband. While he’s in the hell of being unable to hide himself, Keri is in hell of not knowing who he is. She has married a ghost. A mirage. A shape. Who is this man—simultanouely deathly-dull and a wrecker of worlds?
*I Married A Strange Etc* can be clunky when it attempts political satire, but its commentary on married life feels dead on. We’re all strange people. How do we deal with it? By becoming hidden people. We pretend the suit’s our skin and the mask’s our face. But we can’t hide forever. At a certain point, we have to let the disguise drop, and reveal who we truly are. Or be revealed. That’s the thing: eventually your secrets always come tumbling out.
Put more grotesquely, if you’re a guy who’s into feet, your wife is gonna figure that out real soon. There’s an awkward conversation to have or not have, but either way, she will eventually know. You cannot spend ten-plus hours a day around a person without having some cracks appear in whatever social facade exists around you.
The movie’s gross-out gags provoke comparisons with another (more troubling) titan of 90s animation. I grew up on Ren and Stimpy. It briefly dominated my inner sky like Sirius. After the corporate toy-commercial deadness of 80s cartoons, it seemed real and electric and alive. Inside the show was the spirit of Bob Clampett, Tex Avery, and Frank Tashlin, still alive and (if anything) twisted to be *even more* freakish. I was in love. John Kricfalusi seemed like animation’s own Martin Luther King; his show a burning fire to consume the papist heresies of the 80s.
But when I watched Kricfalusi’s ill-fated 2004 reboot of the show (*Ren & Stimpy “Adult Party Cartoon”* or whatever), I was struck by how *miserable* it felt. Had Kricfalusi artistically fallen apart? Had this nihilism always been there, and was I just now watching with eyes open wide? I don’t know, but it was like I was seeing right through the show and into the bleak, cragged mind of its creator: a man who hates women, hates his parents, hates 95% of classic animation (and all of modern animation), hates his audiences, and fundamentally does not have much to say, except to stew and sulk on his resentments endlessly. His animation was still technically brilliant, but what was he *doing* with his talent? Did I really want to watch old wounds getting picked open forever in a technically magisterial fashion? A massive bomb, *Adult Party Cartoon* was cancelled after six episodes. Even if it hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have bothered watching the seventh. I was done. Before the “Cans Without Labels” Kickstarter debacle, before unfortunate discoveries re: his personal life, my verdict on John Kricfalusi’s deal was a big fat “thanks, I got it.”
By contrast, there’s a joyous, generous warmth to I Married A Strange Person that I found appealing and even emotionally moving. It welcomes the viewer in, instead of freezing them out. It doesn’t sneer; it smiles. It’s not cynical or mean. It’s anything but nihilistic. I guess there’s *some* piss and spite (we get the Tex Avery end of Warner Bros more than, say, Chuck Jones). The riffs about an unfunny and sexually inadequate comedian feel aimed at someone Plympton knows. The nefarious Smile Corporation can only be Disney. Walt would have loved to have an armored tank division, even if they did occasionally hump each other like heat-ridden dogs.
It might also be a story about masculinity. What is a man? What is the role of a man? An oft-mocked . These are your two choices, you’re a Man Who’s Bad to Women, or a Man Who’s Not Bad to Women. But “not a jerk to women” isn’t an identity any more than “not mushrooms” is a pizza topping. What actually are you?
I think the default male experience is one of *freakiness*. The sort of freakiness that leaves you isolated and lonely: you have things that are integral to your psyche yet cannot ever be seen by those around you.
It’s generally true that men are a sex of outliers and extremes. Scholastically, boys seem more variable than women, producing more high and low achievers, and this tendency toward extremity seems to carry itself into art as well. *I Married A Strange Person* was made by a man, not a woman. (There are stories we might tell to explain male misfits: from evolution’s perspective, it’s simply not as large a crisis for a man to die or fail to reproduce. Male gametes are small, numerous, and disposable.)
Yes, women can be strange and perverse. But I still remember the Reddit post titled “How can I get my boyfriend to stop digging his tunnel?” To be clear, this was not a metaphorical tunnel. A woman was idly wondering why her boyfriend was suddenly spending all his time digging an enormous hole. Even if all gendered identifiers had been stripped from the post, you still would confidently predict that the hole digger would be a man. “Digging a hole in your yard for no reason” is just a particular kind of madness that only men seem to have. And I wonder if her boyfriend, when he speaks to others, mentions that he’s digging a hole? He’d probably love to talk about it. But he’s also aware—afraid—that whoever he tells about it wouldn’t share his love.
The curse of being a woman is that you are constantly being perceived, constantly on display. The curse of being a man is that nobody wants to know who you actually are. The average woman, viewing her boyfriend’s internet search history, would react with disgust. *Ew. Ick.*
Being a man means hiding your true self from women, and wondering how much you can safely show her. It’s a troubling spot to be in. Maybe she fell in love with your mask, which is rotting to pieces on your face, an illusion more unsustainable by the day. Or maybe she *knows* you’re a freak. Maybe she knew all along, and is hoping you’ll whisk her off on all sorts of bizarre adventures. That’s what you hope for, anyway. My own mother and father had the same kind of relationship as Grant and Keri in the film, now that I think of it.
*I Married a Strange Person!* is an amazing achievement. A bath of idiocy and filth that leaves you feeling strangely wise and clean. I expect that no movie like it will be made again in my lifetime.
“My baby’s in there someplace,” – David Bowie, “TVC 15”
*I was reminded of Will Vinton claymation—the way he doesn’t seem to care that his clay models have fingerprints and bulges and so on. A lot of labor went into it, and that labor is allowed to be visible on the screen. “Look at this insanity. I drew it on paper. What’s your excuse?”
