I’ve been sick recently. Really sick. As in, “We’re sorry Mr. Krueger, but we have no fucking clue what’s wrong with you!” Guesswork in white coats? Perhaps. But I’d rather take my chances with the guesswork of our 2010 medicine men than try to fight this shit on the Oregon Trail. Huzzah for being born in the future!

With nothing to do but sit around and hope Joe Black doesn’t try to filch my soul, I’ve been watching far more television than normal. Most of it has been garbage, but I’ve caught a few gems here and there. One of the best things I’ve seen in the past few days has been Stephen King’s Silver Bullet.

The 1985 flick takes place in a yokel town in Maine (where else, Stephen King, where else?!) that just happens to come under werewolf-attack. Every month, some poor sap gets torn to shreds and the townsfolk chalk it up to a regular, human maniac. Then Corey Haim figures out what’s going on, but no one believes him because he’s in a wheelchair. Well, his Uncle Gary Busey believes him but he’s an alcoholic so you know how that goes. Seriously, if I had a nickel for every time a good monster hunt went sour because of a drunk relative, well, I’d have twenty cents.

This movie is pretty fucking sweet. It’s got werewolves, swear words, bloody mutilations, rocket-powered wheelchairs, John Locke, and an evil priest. It definitely feels like a ridiculous 1980’s flick and I should hope that you’ll enjoy it as such.