Just Another 3 Minutes Of Your Time

Tarantino could make a movie about it – a wild movie.

Imagine the story:

A rogue gang of crack-wound right-wing supremacists come riding out of the mountains somewhere in Idaho. The scene changes to a girls-only school where a class has been brought back after-hours to rewrite an exam. You see the principal looking shifty, you know that something’s about to go bad.

And it does. The doors to the school are unlocked: the supremacists, armed to the teeth, just walk in – no shots fired – and round up girls like cattle. Then they’re gone.

The thing about Tarantino is that you know that the girls will find a way to fight back, and someone’s dad is bound to be a 110% fearless sonofabitch with armed buddies that’s going to kill everyone in that gang and get those girls back home.

Steven Spielberg would take a different angle – he’d direct a film about the crack unit sent in to rescue the abducted girls. We’d get to meet them all, and we’d be sad about the few that get killed along the way. But the girls make it home.

Life Is Not Imitating Art

It turns out that art is us reaching up to how we WISH it was, how it’s been sometimes, or how we wish it was always – and this isn’t a movie.

Last week a gang of something-wound sharia supremacists rode out of a forest.

If we were watching the film, the scene would have changed to show a bemused group of 16-18-year-olds filing back into a room to rewrite an exam.

Maybe it wasn’t the principal, but whoever took them there was looking shifty at that moment, and the gang came in through the front doors, rounded up 234 girls and, just like that, they were gone.

And it’s happened before. And then it happened again.

Just sitting here trying to wake up the Erin Brokovitch in us all.


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