Spooky movies! An open letter to Jason Vorhees

Oh, Jason Vorhees, and your mama, and Corey Feldman, and whoever else killed camp counselors and other various townies in the Friday the 13th franchise. How I hate to admit that I love you, but I do. Your movies are so very bad, even if the first one has Kevin Bacon. You're so predictable, so not scary, and your characters are so badly written. Still, I can't help myself, and I allow you to play on the AMC channel on my television, and I enjoy you! Yes! I am not ashamed to say it. I enjoy you.

Hockey mask wearing, unkillable fellow with a fetish for sharp instruments.

I have an idea.

Obviously, you have some secret to eternal, regenerating life. You really need to figure out what keeps you ticking, despite being beheaded, buried and beset by maggots. Set on fire. Stabbed and run over and generally mutilated. Isolate that indestructible gene or cell or whatever.

Then, Jason, you bottle it! Yes, in a lovely little bottle with a pink label.

Next step: Either infomercial or QVC. Get some aging starlet--someone from the original Beverly Hills 90210 perhaps--to be your spokesmodel. Spokesmodel will never be your calling, Jason. Sell the stuff for $29.99 a bottle.

Give up the killing. Go for the marketing.

Camp Crystal Lake Anti-aging Anti-mortality Elixir.
We're going to be billionaires.