Happy birthday to one Mr. Quentin Tarantino, that crazy weirdo, whose birthday falls on mine — March 27th. Aren’t you special, Quentin? You get to share a birthday with ME.
That being said, I’m sure it’s not much of a secret that I totally love and adore your movies. Anyone who knows me well is aware of the fact that I’ve been griping and moaning about the fact that I will be unable to attend the screenings of Reservoir Dogs at the Alamo Drafthouse in Austin that are being held just especially in honor of your birthday.
You’re a strange fellow, Quentin. You’re so fugly you’re kinda cute, and your movies are anything but original but yet are somehow new and fresh. I can remember my parents renting Pulp Fiction and being so horrified at the opening five minutes that they switched the movie off, never to be reaired in our house ever again. Imagine if they had made it to the last part of your movie. Needless to say, this made you the epitome of cool for a pre-teen who had spent many hours parked in front of television sets watching all kinds of movies, but it wasn’t until Reservoir Dogs that you really grabbed my attention.
And I will never get sick of seeing your Palme D’Or acceptance for Pulp Fiction, mainly because it features you, Kathleen Turner, the main cast of Pulp Fiction and some crazy French dame in a Hefty-bag dress made of gold lame.
You’ve defined a generation, Mr. Tarantino. Congratulations. Have a drink or several, and for God’s sake, will you hurry up with Inglorious Bastards already?