A few days ago, I decided to start a blog. I said to myself, “Hey, I have smart things to say, and I feel passionate about stuff.” But after I picked out my blog’s background and agonized over its title, I thought, “Wait. I don’t really have smart things to say, and I’m not super passionate about anything at the moment, other than my cat and that rad fart joke I heard yesterday. Even if I was super passionate about something, who wants to read my innermost thoughts? Mom? Probably not. She’s too busy writing that romance novel featuring Richard’s throbbing man-parts. I doubt Dad’s interested, either. He’s got his new family to take care of.”
So, I set aside my blog dream.
A couple days later, I went to see “Immortals,” that movie with that one guy who's going to be in the new Superman movie where Superman no longer wears his underwear on the outside of his spandex suit—I'm sure you know who I'm talking about. While I was sitting in the movie theater, watching “Immortals,” something amazing happened, okay, maybe not amazing, but it was sort of noteworthy. I felt passionate about something. Super passionate? No. But passionate enough to take time out of my day to write a blog post. Sure, maybe no one will read this, but you know what? Who cares! So what if no one reads this but me and some guy googling “throbbing man-parts.”
I'm sure by now you're dying to know what it is about this “Immortals” movie that has me all passionate, all inspired, all open to blogging. Well, it’s not the plot or the characters or the cinematography. It’s the movie’s sex scene. Now, before you think I'm some perv, let me explain myself. This one sex scene ruined the movie for me. Ruined it! Maybe I'm being dramatic—I am. It made the movie so-so for me. Why you ask? I'd like to place all blame on the director for his poorly thought out mating scene, but, the truth is, it may entirely be my fault. I'll let you be the judge.
(Warning: I'm about to recount the “Immortals” sex scene, but I’ll do so in a PG manner.)
Sex scene play-by-play: First, the main character guy, who was wounded in the previous scene, wakes up in bed—alone. He’s all muscly and chisel-faced, which is good if you’re shallow and into that kind of thing. He sees the main girl, a virgin prophetess, standing sexy-like in the corner of the room. She saunters over to the bed, and they kiss for the first time. After just one kiss, Virgin Prophetess stands up and drops her dress to the floor—this forward gesture makes me question the whole virgin thing. What the audience sees, when Maybe-Virgin Prophetess disrobes, is her naked body from behind. Hot, right? Wrong. Why? Because it's the closest up close butt shot that I've ever seen! Her butt takes up the right half of the theater screen—this means a butt measuring about 40ft tall by 30ft wide. You think I'm exaggerating, don't you? Butt I'm not (pun intended). Sure, it’s a nice butt, as far as butts go, but when a butt is that big and that bare, it isn't a sexy butt, it's a clinical butt. I find myself wondering if the actress was embarrassed when she watched this particular scene at the premiere, or if she nudged her neighbor and was like, “Hey, looks like all those lunges I did paid off.” The camera pulls away from the gargantuan backside, and Maybe-Virgin Prophetess climbs into bed with Muscly Guy. They gaze into each others eyes and start whispering stuff. Already I’m not feeling it, thanks to the butt, and this gazing and whispering is just kind of awkward. Then I start wondering if his breath smells bad. He was asleep for what seemed like a while, which means a mouth full of stink. Not only that, the movie takes place in 1200 BC, so I know he doesn’t own a toothbrush, and Listerine wasn’t invented until 1879. Eventually, the gazing mumblers decide to get busy, and he rolls on top of her. But now all I can think about is how awful they must smell because neither of them have showered in who knows how long—personal hygiene back then was horrible. Muscly Guy seems especially unclean because he’s been fighting and killing and sweating throughout most of the movie. After only two or three pelvic thrusts, the scene ends, thankfully. But it’s too late. The movie no longer holds my attention. I just want to go home, brush my teeth, and take a shower, not a cold shower because I’m so turned on, but a scalding shower that kills germs—since I’m suddenly aware of the hundreds of strangers with questionable bathing habits who’ve sat in my theater seat. Of course I finish the movie, and, by the end, it sort of pleases me, but it doesn’t completely satisfy.
So, what’s the moral of this blog post? I’m not sure. Maybe there isn’t one. There isn’t. But I did learn three things about myself thanks to the butt debacle: First, I would’ve hated Woodstock—dirty people, smelly bodies, stinky breath. Second, I’d never enjoy an adult movie theater—seeing privates on a screen that large would terrify me. Third, Sir Mix-A-Lot and I have differing opinions.
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