Why Steven Spielberg is Better than God.

To be fair, he is better than all the different Gods. I don’t
discriminate. He’s better than Allah, Mohammed, Jesus, Vishnu,
Jehovah, Tom Cruise and all other symbols of all the different
religions.
Before you completely write me off as a total nut job, just hear me
out. Now think back, think back to 1993. You’re sitting in the movie
theater, hot popcorn on your lap. It’s about 20 minutes into the
movie so you feel a little naseous because you’ve had a bit too much
of that scruptious pop corn. But your interest is piqued. Is it
possible? You ask yourself. Could they really make dinosaurs in this
day and age? Well, I’m not giving Mr. Spielberg credit for the idea.
Michael Crighton (don’t know if that’s spelled right) must be given
credit for this intriguing idea. But then it comes. The daddy of all
shots. That helicopter shot where they round the forest and there
they are in front of you: REAL. LIVE. BRONTOSAURI. (Or whatever
the plural of Brontosaurus is). Remember that feeling, those
goosebumps you got when you saw the real dinosaurs. That’s right.
Steven Spielberg is responsible for that feeling. Those goose bumps.
I mean come on, the man recreated dinosaurs. He made you belive that
those Veloceraptors were really going to eat those kids in the
Kitchen. Didn’t he? When the T-Rex’s eye comes in the window and
that flashlight shines in it. You were gripping your seat?

I ask you now. Steven Spielberg, better than god????

Still not convinced. Ok. Let’s talk about the fact that you still
can’t go in the ocean water without hearing that Jaws theme pulsing in
your head. Now really think about this. Because of one movie, you
are deathly afraid of an animal, that you will probably never see,
that does not want to eat you. You get in the ocean and there is
still a nagging in the back of your head that maybe just mabye your
boogie board is the only thing that will wash up on the beach after
you are eaten by a shark (an occurence that is less likely than you
being hit by lightning). Steven Spielberg, God or Mere Mortal?

I’m sensing a little hesitation still. Well, grab your bigger boat and
hold on to your whip because this is the daddy of all reasons. Lets
talk for a second about how you become approxametly seven years old
when Eliot takes off on his bike and you see him fly past the moon
with that music playing. That music that will always evoke that
emotion in you, that seven year old emotion that comes alive when the
impossible is suddenly playing out before your eyes. How about the
fact that you will never ever look at Reese’s Pieces the same way
(side note: M&M’s turned him down…I really hope they fired that
marketing genius) because maybe just maybe, your yummy peanut buttery
candy will lure an alien into your house? Or how about the fact that
when your dad want’s to call you back he leaves you messages that say
something like ‘E.T., Phone home E.T. (that’s probably just me,
because my dad’s a looney toon)? What about the fact that the ending
always makes you cry? Seriously, how many movies make you cry every
single time you watch them. Think about it. I can name two besides
E.T. (to end your curiosity they are the end of Dead Poets Society
when Ethan Hawke gets on the desk and yells ‘Oh Captain, my captain
and the Tiny Dancer scene in Almost Famous).

I’ll just breifly mention The Color Purple, Saving Private Ryan,
Shindler’s List, to name a few. And of course, the pinnacle of all
Trilogies (yes, better than Lord of the Rings. Yes, better than Star
Wars) INDIANA JONES. The theme song alone makes me want to trek
through the Cambodian Jungle…and I hate nature (that’s why I live in
L.A.)

Finally, the icing on the cake. He feeds his fucking employees
breakfast and lunch every single day. That’s right. Free food for
working at Amblin Entertainment. How, you might ask, do I know such
things? Well, the answer is simple. I got to work in his office
today. Unfortunately I did not get to meet the messiah himself, but I
did have the Indiana Jones theme song stuck in my head (little known
fact: Indiana was the name of George Lucas’ dog). And, I got to reap
the benefits of working for the dream master himself (of course I was
just packing boxes, but whatever, I was stoked). P.S. His office
looks like a resort in Mexico/a scene from Indiana Jones. It’s
fucking awesome.

And there it is. I know you’re convinced. I’m assured that everyone
will go out and buy plastic dinosaurs to tack to their wall and gather
strength from. I myself am looking into a whip to wear around my
neck, perhaps with a Reese’s Piece attached so that I can play with it
when I’m bored.

Hope everyone is well,
Love you all.
Julia

P.S. This is not meant to offend anyone, but you have to admit. He’s
pretty fucking rad.