The Belle of the Furball

Some things get better as they age. Like wine. Or cheese. Or that very rare breed of man who will never be associated with dad bod and is known in some parts as a silver fox. (What’s up, Jeffrey Dean Morgan?)

Beauty and the Beast, viewed through the sober lens of adulthood and after too much adulting? Not one of them. Sure, the songs still resonate and the spectacle still astounds, because hey they accomplished this in 1991 when computers required a whole room to house them and cell phones were as big as bricks.

It’s still the shining jewel of the Disney Renaissance. I watched it recently and I had questions my pre-pubescent alter ego never had.

Like how does the little teacup start the fire in Maurice’s invention? How did it manage to strike the match? Also, how did it figure out how the  contraption worked after barely looking at it, when its creator nearly blew the whole house up just trying to get it to work?

Suddenly, the truth hits. It’s the world’s most romantic movie on bestiality. Were any of them thinking where this could have led?

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Even second base would be awkward, it’d be him literally pawing at her.  If the curse never got broken, lord knows what kind of babies these two would end up having.

And these idiots are actually egging them on.

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I know Beauty and the Beast is at heart a fairy tale about Stockholm syndrome, but Belle, for all her bookishness, sure makes questionable life choices.  Here is the town’s alpha male, a proven hunter at the peak of his powers, asking for her hand – and she shacks up with a recluse who lives in a damp castle staffed by weird and questionable characters. Given a choice of guaranteed food on the table and a roof over her head, she fell for a hairy, abusive furball with anger issues who threw her father out in the cold with nary a scarf for warmth. Way to go, Belle. Way to go.

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The one that got away

 

 

 

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