Having already watched the six worthwhile movies available through Netflix Instant Streaming, I often find myself cruising around their library looking for hidden gems. While most of the movies bear the stench of directorial regret, I’ve managed to find a few passable films that didn’t make me want to sue the production house for pain and suffering.

Sometimes I like to search by rating and check out the films with the lowest viewer ratings…just to see if they’re really as bad as people say they are. Tonight, for example, I’ll be watching “The Samurai Princess,” which is currently listed as the WORST movie in the Action & Adventure category. Reading the movie’s description I have to wonder if people are giving this film a fair shake. Because quite honestly, breast grenades sound awesome.

“When 11 of her friends are murdered, leaving the Samurai Princess the only survivor, she becomes infused with her comrades’ souls. Transformed into an android, she sets out to avenge their deaths. Dai Mizuno co-stars as the princess’s human partner in this gore fest that features breast grenades, detachable chainsaw limbs, deadly guitar riffs and more.”

Someone commented that “The Samurai Princess” isn’t for the squeamish but it can’t possibly be worse than the lowest rated movie in the Comedy genre that I watched the other night, a German import entitled “Otto.” The description showed promise as it said the film was about a gay zombie trying to make it in a world where gay zombies are ostracized. Seeing how open and accepting society is when it comes to hetero zombies, I figured the twist at least had the hallmarks of a promising comedy.

All I can say is that based on the five minutes I saw, it not only doesn’t belong in the Comedy genre, it doesn’t even belong on Netflix. I skipped ahead hoping the movie would get to the point and it plopped me right into the middle of a scene where a bloodied and eviscerated naked dude in all his frontal flaccid glory was being kissed and spooned by the lead character.

My eyes still haven’t recovered from the subsequent bleach rinse.

I didn’t stick with the movie long enough to see where and how it actually tried to get laughs, but it still made for an awkward conversation with my 16-year old who noticed this in my Instant Viewing history:

I’m a big believer in “to each their own” but it’s just not for me. I had to get the visions of intestines and man smooches out of my brain. Being a big fan of documentaries, I tried to find the most lighthearted topic available.

What I discovered was a documentary just a shade less threatening and slightly less menacing than a baby fawn licking dew from a rose petal.

If you haven’t yet seen “Nursery University,” you have to. It’s like a train wreck that you just can’t take your eyes off of. My first impression was that it was a fake documentary in the vein of “Best in Show” because I didn’t think people could genuinely become this obsessed over being awarded the privilege of spending $17,000 per SEMESTER for Preschool.

Seventeen grand!

All so their child could fingerpaint and assemble puzzles before applying to Harvard.

These parents acted as though their children risked spending the rest of their unemployable lives in a cardboard box if they weren’t accepted by Highbrow University. Fearing that any and all future academic potential could be squandered, they treated the process with the same passion and panic as someone trying to get their child into the top Ivy League schools.

As their child sat in a corner blowing snot bubbles and babbling to the cat, the parents labored over admission papers and even threatened to move out of New York City if they were rejected. Because seriously, how can you show your face in Bloomingdales if your child isn’t doodling with the best?

These parents furiously completed numerous applications, sought help from Preschool Acceptance Advisers (yes, this IS a career), and one dude even broke out a Thesaurus hoping to score the perfect word for his essay. The pretentiousness was dripping midway through the film, yet I found myself only wanting more. If only to see just how far off the ledge these parents could step without plummeting into the lap of reality.

As I listened to the interviews given by school administrators (people treated in the same reverence as the Pope and sometimes God himself), I wondered what would have transpired if we had strolled in one day with Kamryn in tow.

Two parents were somewhat embarrassed that their toddler only spoke two languages. Kamryn has yet to master one.

Two other parents appeared to hyperventilate as they watched their child fumble with a backwards puzzle piece in the presence of an interviewer. They played it off all cool and calm but I have to imagine that child is now sitting on the Returns shelf at Saks Fifth Avenue.

The interviewer would ask questions like, “What does your child hope to get from Arrogance House?”

While my answer would have been “Raisins,” these parents waxed poetic buzzwords such as diversity, personal fulfillment, and social enrichment. This caused the interviewer to nod, which sparked a verbal frenzy of fancy words from parents who thought they had one on the hook. By the end of the interview I believe they were speaking Latin.

Parents and interviewers alike were so impressed with each child’s ability to speak fluently, enunciate properly, and maintain focus. Well, I can tell you right now that if these are prerequisites for admission to “The SnootyPie School for Future Elitist Blowhards” then Kamryn would probably be the first one rejected.

On the plus side, we’d save $34,000 a year. But it’s kind of a bummer to know that all of her academic potential would be clubbed to death before she even learned to tie her shoes.

We’ve never really been the type of parents to obsess over perfection. I’m living proof that you can meander through life being far less than perfect in every facet of your existence and yet still revel in happiness and blessings.

So when our daughter mispronounces words, we don’t admonish her for it. We simply tell her the proper way to say it. To which she’ll stare back blankly wondering why we’re interrupting her story.

Usually, we just let her speak, knowing full well that we’re the only ones able to comprehend her gibberish. And sometimes, an incorrectly pronounced word turns out to be one of the cutest things on the planet. A word that’s far too adorable to rectify. Even if it means we’re sacrificing her spot at a prestigiously overpriced Manhattan Preschool.

So when Kamryn walks around the house singing and mangling the alphabet, we let her. It’s not the end of the world, and I really don’t think she needs to be stopped and corrected at each and every turn. We pick our battles and while we do teach her new words, correct words, and share how to properly pronounce words, we do have a little library of words we’re happy to wait out.

After all, she won’t sit at the dinner table asking for a “fork” and a “foon” forever.

So even though she’s unable to sing her ABC’s perfectly at the age of three, we’re not worried. We still have time. And I’m pretty sure she’ll nail it before her college interviews.

So for now? I say sing away, Sweetheart.

“A-B-C-D, E-F-G…
H-I-J-K-and a Lemon P…
Q is S, T is V. W-S, Y-Z…
Now I (incoherent babble) long with me!”

Aren’t these kinds of moments the reason we even have children? I mean, aside from scoring free labor and all?

We had the same philosophy with Andrew and Michael. We corrected words that mattered and left the adorable mistakes alone.

When Andrew was first starting to read he wanted to show me his “Psyduck” Pokemon card. He walked up, pointed at the card, and proudly said, “Look, Daddy. It’s Pissyduck.”

Phonetically, the kid was a genius. I couldn’t stifle that. We just let it roll and had him show off his card to my befuddled parents.

And when Michael was two and wanted to see something far, far away, he’d always ask to look through my “Finoculars”. Rather than correct him, we just handed them over.

When Michael wanted a cool glass of “nenade” on a hot summer day, we squeezed the lemons.

If Kamryn wants a “pockee-yay,” we’re the only people on earth that know she wants a popsicle.

Then there’s “nareware,” of which you have boxers and briefs. There’s “cancakes” with syrup, spending nights in “hoo-tels,” and the melt in your mouth not in your hands delight of “Lemon-M’s”.

And when Michael rapped his knuckles on our banister causing them to bleed, he cried, worried that he had broken his “finger ribs.”

You just can’t correct this stuff. Because once you do, the cute words are gone forever.

Selfish? Probably. Damaging? Doubtful. They grow out of it. And they’ll eventually and naturally learn the proper pronunciations.

Much to our dismay.

I never would have thought that a gay zombie would be the motivation behind a post, so I can’t wait to see what the Samurai Princess inspires. Speaking of which, I need to get that crankin’.

While you await my review, why not share some of your own child’s uncorrectable adorableness.

Unlike the gay undead Otto, I can’t be alone in this world.

________________________________________

UPDATE
Otto won’t go away. Netflix sent me this email today. I think in part to mock me.

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