Seriously. I cannot believe you clicked on this link. Maybe you should seek help?

Be gentle.

But since you’re here, let’s talk about Road House — the 1989 Swayze vehicle which is currently being rebooted with Ronda Rousey in the lead role. This is the second Swayze film to find new life in this century, the other of course being Point Break, which has transmogrified into a film about global eco-terrorists instead of one about bank robbers in rubber president masks.

I’m pretty sure neither remake is going to be a comedy and that, frankly, makes me question the very foundations of reality.

Nobody puts baby in my uterus.

I just re-watched most of Road House — the original — while waiting for my wife to return from Guatemala. If that film isn’t a comedy, then next you’ll expect me to believe that the 1980s were meant to be taken seriously. Even Miami Sound Machine.

This is a film about the world’s best bouncer — I’m going to repeat that — the world’s best bouncer being brought in as a hired gun to clean up a dangerous roadside club. Simultaneously, he must save the town from Ben Gazzara’s villainous local Reaganite, Brad Wesley, and woo foxy local doctor, Elizabeth Clay (Kelly Lynch). In these endeavors of critical importance, Swayze’s uber-bouncer Dalton gets assisted by the club’s house band (which happens to be fronted by blind Canadian guitarist Jeff Healey), Dalton’s mentor (Sam Elliot), a lot of tai chi, some aromatic candles (I’m guessing), not-quite-Wilford Brimley-in-Hard Target, and way too late for my liking, Keith David as a bartender.

Danny isn’t here, Mrs. Torrence.

There is a sex scene. It reminded me of trying to truss a turkey while on Quaaludes.

Which, yes, I’ve done. With Patrick Swayze. Long story.

Road House is a film in which someone has compacted the 1980s into a shillelagh and used it to beat you about the face until you puke mullets. It is definitely a comedy. There is no way anyone, ever, could have expected you to take anything in it even slightly seriously.

World’s. Best. Bouncer.

I can’t wait to see how it ends. Will Brad Wesley be allowed to continue terrorizing Jasper Missouri with his monster truck driving team of thugs? Will the Double Deuce grow into this small town’s version of the Hard Rock Cafe — and, if so, where will all the bar’s previous patrons go to throw beer bottles at musicians? Can Doc Clay stomach Dalton’s tendency to rip out people’s throats with his bare hands, hands that then proceed to lovingly fondle her faceparts? What will become of Dalton’s cherished Mercedez 560SEC? Will we see any more fake breasts?

These are important questions. Questions for the ages, if those ages are 12 to 15.

I am glad they are remaking Road House. While I have little faith that the original can be improved upon in any way, modern Hollywood’s attempts are certain to produce either hilarity or schadenfreude in numbing doses.

Road House requires one to accept the existence of both the world’s best bouncer and a club dangerous but valuable enough to makes tracking down such an individual worthwhile. Imagine: your local road house, the place you go to relax to some loud guitar and light violence is in dire need of saving. Bad men with bad moustaches are letting their trampy girlfriends gyrate on tables willy nilly! WILLY NILLY, I say!

This cannot stand. You better watch Patrick Swayze try to have sex. It is our only hope.