Last night, we were playing Scrabble, and it's like neck and neck between me and her.

We blew my dad away early. So right at the end, I had this choice of putting down ratio for like five lousy points, or... Well, what, honey? Full ratio. On a triple word score for 24 points in the game? What'd she do? She wouldn't let me have it. She won by seven points because she said obscenities not allowed in Scrabble. Ugh.

Ugh.

...

... seven points because you said obscenity's not allowed in scrabble.

You can't polish the turn.

This is film's act.

No, you cannot. Oh, you're not.

Oh, sure. Hello, everybody and welcome to film sack. That's right. This is film sack continually,

minding the very depths of film entertainment for all mankind.

My name is Scott Johnson.

I'm joined today by Brian the factory guy may have died in that car,

but at least he never dropped that cigar from his dead face mouth, done away.

Stupid dead face mouth.

Oh, hi.

This week on Film Sack, we head back to the 1980s for a story that takes place in the 1970s about a bullied nerd guy who falls in love with his 1950s, new to him. Vehicular, homicidal, King of the Road, rock and roll on the radio, new adventures of old Christine, now driving its evil-possessed self back to the Netflix garage to cool off after running over yet another dumbass fleeing in a straight line. Get out of the road, you stupid, store brand Travolta? Oh, come on. At least Zig, if you're not going to zag, you know what? I'm glad you're dead. Hey, not cool, Mr. Cotera. Anywho, we used to live in a different, we used to live a lot different in 1950s, Detroit. And as a middle-aged guy of the time, smoking a cigar and working on the Plymouth assembly line, whose job it is to, well, the best I can tell, is to get in the front seat of new cars, roll up the windows, start dropping fat ash in the front seat's molestic steering wheel while farting it up to rock and roll. Well, the fact that I made it to middle age was a good run,

so I doubt they'll do an autotopsy on my dead corpse,

let alone suspect a car of murder.

Randy, your lunch and try to keep it cold.

There's yogurt in there, so don't let no greaser stab it,

because it'll end up on the floor like my dreams of having a child that's not a loser Falachio

Yeah, falaccio

...