I love Friday the 13th. I don’t care what all you big babies think; there’s nothing unlucky about it. Friday’s my favorite day of the week, and 13 is my favorite number. So what’s not to love? Well, I guess the movie Friday the 13th. And I’m not talking about one of the 1,400 remakes. I’m talking about the original 1980 version I saw in the theater when slasher flicks were just gaining momentum. The thought of Jason still scares the crap out of me when I’m camping near a lake. Which is every summer at my Dad’s. The original Friday the 13th was pretty cheesy now that I think about it; but back in the day, sitting in a dark movie theater and seeing that stuff on the big screen, along with the crazy “Ch-Ch-Ch-Ah-Ah-Ah” sound effects, was much scarier than renting a copy of Freddy vs. Jason and watching it on TV while texting and tweeting.
My high school boyfriend took me to see the original in the theater when it came out. He thought for sure I’d be the one to freak out. I was fine. Until the end of the movie when you think it’s over and (Spoiler Alert!) suddenly What’s-Her-Face was lying in the boat in the middle of the lake with her hand in the water like an idiot, and Decomposed Jason jumped up from the watery depths and grabbed her. Holy sh*t! That was the precise moment when my boyfriend was pulling on his jacket sleeve, and he flailed back like a little girl, slamming his arm into my face. It was like Decomposed Jason was actually attacking me. Yeah, that freaked me out.
Then I went and saw Friday the 13th- Part II the next year with my bro Dave. Dave was sure I’d be trembling or freaking out throughout the massacre, so he told me he better hold my large Dr. Pepper drink during the movie. Um, the first time Jason jumped out at one of the dumb-ass camp counselors, Dave shot that Dr. Pepper in the air, and it landed on me.
So regardless of the movies, I love Friday the 13th. Of course, those movies aren’t half as traumatic as what I saw in the store the other day. I was in one of those big box grocery stores, which shall remain nameless, and something caught my eye on the top shelf. I don’t know why. I hardly ever walk down that particular aisle, and I rarely look up. But I was searching for the good tuna in a can – you know, solid white albacore, not the chunky, regurgitated bottom-feeder fish stuff that probably contains some of Jason’s soggy skin cells. And shudder, up on that shelf … there they were … together: