What is it about these two massive doofuses
that moves me? Maybe because it’s my father’s
favorite movie, or that my ex hated it
for its stupidity, or maybe I am a massive doofus
and enjoy being in similar company.
It’s not a smart comedy, I admit this,
it’s the worst kind of slapstick
with a soundscape of 90’s B-sides behind it.
Still, maybe there is something to be said
about two buds, jobless and lonely,
roadtripping it across the country,
fumbling and fucking up, making messes
of their lives, and, somehow, someway,
always landing right-side up—luck
always in their favor in the way it can
only be in movies. I think we all secretly wish
for a hapless friend to fill that cold passenger seat,
who will drive the next shift and sip a frosty
Big Gulp with us in the rambling Midwest.
We all hope, don’t we? For some plain old
dumb luck to lay its ghostly palms on our bumpers
and usher us between the highway lines.
The problem is it almost never does.

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