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First off, let me apologize 100% for not knowing that Monday, May 19, 2014 was the 25th anniversary of the American cinema classic, “Road House.” It can get pretty crazy on the internet and I just flat out forgot. You ever forget? Happened to me. I was just so stupid. As a native Missourian, I know that “Road House” is our eternal beacon of cultural achievement in the Show-Me State and I flat out blew it.
Dalton lied when he said “Pain don’t hurt,” because the pain I feel for the lack of appreciation and respect shown yesterday is damn near unbearable. The only article I saw written on the greatest bar fight action flick of all time was by Ashley Burns over at UPROXX. One internet article. One. There weren’t parades or a mayoral proclamation in the city of Jasper, Missouri, just 20 minutes outside of Kansas City*. It’s a shame, and I feel like I should take on some of the blame.
*Jasper, Missouri does exist, but it’s really 130 miles south of KC.
“Road House” was the perfect late-’80s action flick. It had a super hot blonde as a small town doctor who was martyring herself for the good of the town and seemed to be the only one willing to stand up to Brad Wesley, who somehow ruled over a small Missouri town and had a house with a helipad right next to a farm with horses and an old man baling hay. Just like home. Brad’s cast of henchmen were perfectly cast as well. There was Tinker, who exclusively shopped for clothes at the local bulldozer dealership and dressed like fat Paul Bunyan. Powergut doesn’t even begin to describe his body type.
Look at that thing. Just busting out over his belt and stretching his suspenders to their limit.
It’s the perfect action flick. You have a hero with a troubled past, the aging mentor played by Sam Elliott who knows what’s best for the hero and eventually meets his demise at the hands of the villain, not one – but TWO – buxom blondes who show the goods, an evil rich guy, a denim-clad #1 henchman of the evil rich guy, and a town full of goofy, lovable, kind characters who converse exclusively in folksy quips.
But what makes “Road House” a classic piece of cinema Americana are the lines. The writing in the movie is top notch and I’m pretty sure it swept every writing category at the Academy Awards in 1989. The dialogue seems to serve the purpose of only setting up which ridiculous, hyper-masculine, philosophical one-liner is coming up next.
“That gal’s got entirely too many brains to have an ass like that.”
“I’ll get all the sleep I need when I’m dead.”
“Calling me ‘sir’ is like putting an elevator in an outhouse, it don’t belong.”
“I got married to an ugly woman. Don’t ever do that. It just takes the energy right out of you. She left me, though. Found somebody even uglier than she was. That’s life. Who can explain it?”
Jimmy: Prepare to die.
Dalton: You are such an asshole.
“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“A man puts a gun in yer face, you got two choices- stand there and die or kill the motherfucker!”
Drunk guy: Whaddaya say we get nipple to nipple?
Denise: I can do that without you!
Poetry. Plain and simple. Loving “Road House” is what makes us American. It’s not only about drinking, hot babes and bar fighting – it’s about friendship and the lasting power of being a good person. Being a good person and ripping some guy in a Canadian tuxedo’s throat out and then calling out his boss from a distance as the blood of the conquered drips down your face with your lady looking on. Then, you murder that man in his own house and cover the whole thing up. The eternal message of “Road House?” Snitches get stitches.