Director Cage Fight – Round 1

by Mr. Nobel

Round 1: David Lynch vs. Lars von Trier

The set up: You’ve just slandered two of the world’s most controversial auteurs. I dunno, maybe you called Lynch’s dad a fag and you insinuated that von Trier had a tiny penis or some shit. Whatever. Point is you dissed them and now they’re coming after you and they’re going to find you (so you can run and tell that, etc. etc.).

LVT:  You come home to your lovely little house in suburbia. You walk over to the kitchen to grab an ice cold bottle of beer when, suddenly, the world goes black. Next thing you know, you’re strapped into a rusty, crappy chair in a dingy basement from Satan’s rectum. You notice something protruding from your groin…it’s a grindstone! And it’s crushing your balls! (Or clitoris, for all you lady readers out there or whatever).

You scream. Cue Lars strolling out with a little jaunty dance, whistling a Bjork song through his bolted shut jaw. He casually lops off part of your right knee, and you black out from the pain. It’s going to be a long night.

David Lynch: You notice some weird flashing lights on your bedroom wall. Somehow, this creepy atmospheric, industrial music starts playing. Insects, fog and shit start creeping into your room. You close your eyes…and then open them again. Everything’s back to normal. Whew.

You go to sleep. And then, you realize that David Lynch just subliminally implanted an image of him fucking your mother into your mind. You wake up screaming, but the image doesn’t go away. That old bastard keeps going at it with your mother. Maybe your father, in a ridiculous wig, is screaming in the corner. You try jamming forks into your eyes. Doesn’t wipe the image away. Aw shit.

Winner: Physical pain in ephemeral, but fucking with your dreams? That’s some hardcore, next level shit right there. Lynch takes this one.