At work the other night I was talking about the film Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby with a co-worker (Jane) and one of the event patrons mentioned that they had also been recommended this film by a number of people. Hence, the patron continued, this must be some sort of sign to go see the film. I got really excited, as I do, having met someone of a soberish mystical disposition who believes in the signs of fate… No, excited about the film and was talking it up. Without wanting to go down the whole I-am-doing-my-PhD-in-Cultural-Studies-on-modified-car-culture-so-I-am-the-expert route, I explained the attraction to the film thus:
Glen: Who is that dude with the crocodiles? You know, who is dead?
Jane: Steve Irwin?
Glen: Yeah Steve Irwin. OK, have you seen that South Park episode where they take the piss? [pausing in rapturous anticipation]
Jane: … [frowning]
Glen: No, but anyway, it is all, like, Steve Irwin molesting wildlife: “I’ll just… put my thumb… up this croc’s arse… righty-o…” [doing motions]
Jane: … [hands on hips, eyebrow cocked haughty like]
(Patron: … [sips drink, blinks])
Glen: Yeah, anyway, now imagine the hyper-masculinity of NASCAR car culture is a croc, ok? Then Talladega Nights is the South Park Steve Irwin.
Yep, it’s that good. If you haven’t already seen it, please do so.