Illustration courtesy of D at SeafoodPunch! (Thanks, D!)
WARNING! This post contains links to scenes of violence that may not be appropriate for all ages but were apparently perfectly fine for the young JD.
When I was a kid, my mom and dad took me to see The Godfather. OK, they didn’t take me so much as bring me along because they really wanted to see the movie, and in THOSE days, parents just hauled kids around with them or stayed at home. I know this to be true, because every time we see a baby out in public, my mom gives The Speech:
“When you and your brother were little, we couldn’t afford a babysitter and in THOSE days, we didn’t take you kids with us wherever we went—we just didn’t go out!”
I can’t blame my parents for wanting to get out and have a little fun. They worked hard and sacrificed a lot for my brother and me. Nor do I blame them for bringing me to an R-rated movie. I’m sure they thought, Oh, young JD won’t mind all the violence. She won’t notice the guns and blood and death.
Mom? Dad? I minded. I noticed. In fact, it scarred me for life. That night (and many nights to follow) I dreamed about guys busting through my door with machine guns. I worried that every time I got in the front seat of a car, I was this close to being garrotted. To this day, I automatically duck down at a tollbooth. And if I happen to be eating at a cute little Italian restaurant and a nervous-looking guy comes out of the bathroom? Bye.
But the scene that truly scarred me for life involved no guns, no weapons, no mush-mouthed Marlon Brando.
Do you know the scene I’m talking about? Oh, I think you must. I watched The Godfather recently, and as this scene was coming up, I felt so terrified I had to put a pillow on my head.
Go ahead. Watch the 90-second scene that ruined my life HERE!
If you didn’t have the balls to watch it, here’s what you missed (oh, yes, I am determined to scar as many people as possible):
We see an expensive house. Expensive bedroom. Slightly ominous music plays as we pan toward a guy sleeping under expensive-looking sheets. It’s a movie producer who, in the previous scene, refused to do a favor for the Godfather. He wakes up. Something’s not quite right. He rolls over and discovers blood . . . all over the blankets and himself. Is it his blood? He starts freaking out. The music speeds up as the blankets are pulled down to reveal . . .
THE HEAD OF A HORSE!
But not just any horse. It’s the movie producer’s beloved prize-winning racehorse. The blankets are slick with blood. It’s a quiet, peaceful morning. The movie producer guy screams and screams. The horse’s head says nothing.
I screamed too. Later, tho. That night in bed, can you imagine what I went through? If I woke up and felt that something wasn’t quite right, would I dare to pull down the blankets and look? That lump at the foot of the bed—was that just my foot? What if I felt something with my toe . . . something . . . horse-head-shaped?
Well, that’s the story of how I was scarred for life. Sweet dreams, everybody!