Getting Fingered on a Rollercoaster Isn't What it's Cracked up to be.
When I lived in Nashville, I was lucky enough to befriend Jenny.
Our friendship wasn't easy to come-by. We were both working in bars, and drinkly heavily. The first time we hung out, Jenny choked me out because I didn't want her to drive home drunk. The second time we hung out, I screamed at her for trying to help me clean up after a party. I mean really screamed at her.
We were a fabulous match made in hell. Two lushes, who were the epitome of love-hate. (But mostly love, ya'll.)
But despite our temporary alcoholism, Jenny and I bonded over many things. We hated Nashvillle's CMA fest with a fiery passion, but also kind of loved it. There was something in the so-bad-it's-good aspect of the event that captured both our hearts.
We felt the same way about movies. Anything that clearly represented the so-bad-it's-good genre, and we were on it. One night, we decided to have a Marky Mark marathon. We started with the quintessential Marky Mark classic, Fear.
Then? We made this...