You know that standard scene in every action movie where the hero is battling the multi-million dollar mechanized death-machine and somehow finds that sweet, sweet vulnerable spot? What does he do? “I wonder what this does?” he shouts rhetorically as he reaches in and rips out a handful of sparking, colorful wiring. It’s a fun scene and I’ve never before begrudged a director’s inclusion of such well-recycled material.
But, did you know that apparently this is a thing people do? They reach their hands into the dark, horrific bowels of their well-oiled machines and indiscriminately shuffle shit around like one would do when trying to clean spaghetti from a fucking garbage disposal. These self-proclaimed mechanics are then overcome with faux-horror that their once-pristine toy now creaks and hisses like a sad, dying alien. And then, as if to complain that their pizza is later than thirty minutes and therefore gratis, they’ll call up the manufacturer aghast that their super expensive array of tubes and flashing lights is reduced to a frozen stack of silent metal; towering like an ancient monolith at the center of a long-lost, once-great empire.
Surely, they realize that the sad sack of pale flesh on the other end of the receiver is praying, silently and solemnly under his breath, that the mechanic’s entire bloodline terminates swiftly in a sad tragedy? They must understand the monster they’re creating and teasing is chained only by the social contract that one has with strangers in a professional setting. They realize this polite attitude is required, but not deserved.
Please, tell me that we live in a world where such things don’t need taught, but are simply known?