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On Grease 2

Poor poor Michelle Pfeiffer. I doubt that she fully understands that like a zillion women in their late twenties/early thirties spent their adolescence secretly wishing for a Pink Ladies jacket and black Capri pants. Possibly if she had a firmer grasp upon this, she wouldn’t feel as though she had to appear in movies where she is a frazzled mom who trips over things so that we won’t hate her because she’s beautiful. She realizes that women can’t think she’s a skinny bitch if she’s clumsy.

But she needn’t dump a goldfish bowl filled with water down her shirt just to prevent me from hating her because George Clooney wants to sleep with her.

I like Michelle anyway (and besides, I have absolutely no interest in sleeping with George Clooney). I almost ruined my braces chewing bubble gum in that snotty J.D. way. I couldn’t understand why she was with Adrian Zmed in the first place. His hair looked like the shag carpeting in the back window of my neighbor’s Camaro. I don’t know why he felt the need to put black shag carpeting back there. It always smelled somewhat of hot dusty wet dog and that is what I have assumed Adrian Zmed’s hair would also smell like. I mean, why would she want Adrian when she could have had Louis DiMucci? At thirteen, let me tell you, I was ready to do it for MY country too. Dayum. And he had a voice. Yum.