The Life of Piracy
This is just one super-villain’s review of Pi’s Life.
“The Life of Pi” is a psycho-spiritual thriller movie by Ang Lee which is based on a book by Yann Martel which is based on the life of Pi Patel — or, at least, the part of Pi’s life where he sails the Pacific Ocean atop his huge cojones with a Bengal fucking Tiger waterskiing behind.
I’m not saying it’s not impressive. All I’m saying is this: I’d have done it faster, and I would have eaten the tiger.
Pi is the sole survivor of a catastrophic shipwreck, yet he spends very little time reflecting on the fortuitous fact that he was not dragged to the bottom of the sea like like the rest of his family. Even though he is lucky enough to be spared the horrible asphyxiating deaths of his mother, father and brother AND finds a lifeboat AND enough tiger meat to easily feed a 16-year-old Indian boy for months, he’s all, “Dear Diary, WHAA! MY FAMILY IS DEAD! WHAA! I don’t wanna drink my own urine. Whaa! I’m a vegetarian who had to eat a turtle to keep from starving to death, and now I’m no better than that bloodthirsty tiger I may or may not have hallucinated. WHAA!”
He spends the 227 days aimlessly floating to Canada, which turns out to be Mexico because he’s too busy going batshit crazy to concentrate on proper maritime navigation. This is the slowest self-rescue in the history of people surviving disasters at sea, yet ALL OF A SUDDEN, such dawdling merits a Mann Booker Prize-winning bio-novel and a $70 million 3D blockbuster.
I lollygagged in my mother’s womb for an extra two weeks past my scheduled birth date–two weeks spent floating aimlessly in a green sea of my own baby poop–before I grabbed my mom by the spine and said, “I’ve had enough of this shit! C-SECTION. NOW.”
You can imagine my surprise when not one novelist showed up on my doorstep eager to transcribe my neonatal existential heroism into a Pulitzer Prize.
This past weekend, I
competed in pwned some noobs in a Warrior Dash.
For those who are unfamiliar, Warrior Dash is a more challenging spin-off of the traditional 5k. Competitors traverse 10-12 “obstacles” — flaming logs, barbed wire trenches, water hazards — as they complete the race course. Unfortunately, in addition to these obstacles, I was forced to traverse the bodies of fallen race participants who, in the spirit of Pi, were taking their sweet- ass time getting to the finish line.
I do value winning above sportsmanship and basic human compassion, but I am not a monster.
Whenever possible, I tried offering Warrior Dawdlers words of encouragement, such as “WALKERS TO THE RIGHT!” and “WATER BREAKS ARE FOR PANSIES!” before hurdling them like a Jamaican Olympian.
In the final 1/4 mile of the race, we army crawled through mud trenches, dragging ourselves under barbed wire and toward the finish line. Jazzed on adrenaline and a little too reminded of those extra weeks I spent in the womb, I had very little patience to spare when I found my path through the mud blocked by three incredibly hefty “runners.”
A rapid situation analysis suggested that they had lost all hope of escaping the mud pit and had surrendered themselves to their imminent fossilization. My psyche didn’t need to convince itself that they were zoo animals in order to come to terms with stepping onto the largest one’s back and launching myself over the remaining mud and barbed wire.
That may sound heartless to you, Pi Patel, but those mud turtles almost cost me 74th place.
Yes, Piscine “Pi” Patel achieved a feat which, had he not achieved it, would, to this day, be considered impossible for a Navy Seal, let alone a 16-year-old, newly orphaned Indian immigrant suffering from the world’s most readable post-traumatic stress hallucinations.
Yes, Yann Martel penned a literary masterpiece which is, as Barack Obama wrote in his handwritten fan letter to Martel, “elegant proof of God and the power of storytelling.”
And yes, Ang Lee took Pi’s feat and Yann’s masterpiece and crouching tigered them into 127 minutes of mind-blowing movie magic actually worth $12 and two hours of 3D glasses-induced pain.
All I’m saying is, if I ever disappear somewhere in the Pacific, you can expect me to cruise into the Port of Los Angeles no more than 6 months later. I’ll be the one eating kelp-wrapped tiger-bites and sunbathing atop the 7 ft. clam shell pulled by the dolphins I learned to communicate with.