Isaac’s Picture Conclusions’s Shitfest is always the movie blogging social event of the season. While I and/or Brad don’t normally participate in many blogathons, I always feel really bad for Eric for numerous reasons, and throw him some pity posts, never expecting to win because I never put more than 36 seconds of thought into it. I just want the constant phone calls from him to stop. Anyway, this time around we got even more lazy than usual and just decided to submit an email conversation we had about the truly shitty It Follows, a movie with the most unlikable characters since the Nazis in Schindler’s List, and the weakest, most nonsensical effort by a villain since Velvet von Ragnar lost to Jason Voorhees in the first Villain Madness.

Somehow someway, despite being up against some great entries that seemed like effort was put into them, we ended up winning. I think it was in large part due to our sex appeal and the fact that we sent a lock of our hair to every eligible voter. As much as I begged Eric for the cash equivalent, he sent us a trophy anyway.

I immediately threw it directly in the fucking garbage. Because what the fuck are we supposed to do with it? I actually watched the municipal garbage truck pick up the can it was in and crush it in its mighty steel jaws as I giggled with girlish delight. Good fucking riddance. But then, the next morning as I was backing out of the driveway on my way to work…

HAHAHAHA!! I laughed my fucking ass off all the way to work. How absurd was that? Did the trophy think that was scary? It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my life! I’m pretty sure my reaction was the opposite of what the trophy intended, but what did it expect? Stupid trophy. When I got to work, the trophy would randomly pop up at the water cooler, the copier, my desk drawers, etc. I was cracking up all day, but no one else could see the trophy, so they all just thought I was fucking nuts. Maybe I was, but still, hysterical. At one point, I was sitting at my desk trying to work and the trophy came up behind me and played with my hair. “Cut it out, trophy,” I said, annoyed that it would interrupt my work with hair playing. Why would it pull my hair, and not just kill me like it seemed to want to do? I don’t know, but I didn’t see it in the office again after that, because I think it was embarrassed. However, later that night I got a call from Brad, who was an accomplice in my wronging of the trophy since I called him to ask what to do with it and he said, “Fuck it, throw that piece of shit in the god damn garbage for all I care.” But as it turns out, the trophy had hash to settle. Brad hash…

As Brad settled down to take his daily 2 a.m. dump, he was surprised (not shocked, just a little confused really) to find the trophy sitting on the back of his shitter, intent on ironically disrupting his personal shitfest. Laughing, Brad picked the trophy up (it was warm and sort of thrumming, he claims) and threw it in the tub, then threw his hair dryer in after it. That didn’t work, since the trophy is made of such shitty materials that it can’t possibly be damaged in any way, no matter how hard we try. After several hours of throwing different small appliances into the tub to no avail, Brad reached a gentleman’s agreement with the trophy. He put it on one of his DVD shelves in the corner of his basement, where it will haunt us every time we walk by it to take a beer piss in the middle of watching an old Dan Haggerty movie.

We may never understand what the fuck the trophy really wants, but I’m pretty sure it just wants us to have sex with one of its openings, to which we say: maybe.