Pete Docter and Bob Peterson's "Up"

If Pixar came and raped my mom, I would have to side with them and say that the bitch was begging for it.
They can do no wrong by me.

Until I saw "Up" I'd actually forgotten that my tearducts were fully functional, and that I could shed tears of both the sad and the happy variety. For an hour and a half I rediscovered the possibilities of love, and the world seemed open to exploration and magic, and promises were worth keeping even if one has to leap over continents of logic holding only to colorful balloons blown up with magic. For an hour and a half it seemed like there was dignity in old age, (thank you, Ed Asner), and Michael Giacchino's beautiful score lulled me into the illusion that the Boy Scouts could very well save the last shred of America's decency.
God damn it, for an hour and a half I could have distinctively called myself happy and alive and full of glee.

Then it was over, and I took off the 3-D glasses to wipe the tears off my face, and I turned my head around to share the theatrical joy, and a sullen-looking teenage boy was like: "What the fuck you looking at, you never seen a crack pipe? Turn your head around, you old faggot."

Ah, back to Earth.