Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Dirty Shame = Dirty Trick

To begin: I enjoy tawdry cinema. I enjoy Monty Python, some of the Troma stuff. Hell, I even like Benny Hill.

But I feel violated by A Dirty Shame.

Oh John Waters, you silly rascal you! If you really wanted to put that much penis into a movie, you should have just made a good piece of porn (like everyone else does)! But no, you got that somewhat curious, and ever-subtle NC-17 (-> Green light: GO!) and you ran like hell with it! And I know exactly what went through your mind when they granted you your wild-card rating: I will bring them nubile and middle aged penises! All hail the love-muscle! Let the media-craving masses eat turgid man-root!

Errr... it certainly caught me, as strangers dangling their ding-a-lings always will, a bit off-guard.

We're all cool with penis around here. I mean, those of us who don't like other peoples' penises: have one of our own, so we see their value. And those with neither said equipment, nor the inclination to view others' said equipment, are aware that the things are somewhat necessary for procreation (not entirely though: Hell-o, Jesus!) and can at least respect them for that purpose. However, I do believe it fair to say that parading them around in a movie might be asking a bit much of an audience, even those familiar with your tendency toward the shocking and obscene (which I personally appreciate). Besides, even pro-penis-viewers are more than likely envisioning the saluting version(s), not the flaccid, mini-trunks you splayed and interspersed through your film.

I seriously feel like you set me up to see random dick. Normally, your films are ridiculous, irreverent chaos and overacting characters that make little or no sense as they cavort and make silly. And that's your theme, man. That's your shtick. And you somehow pull it off every time, slipping another bit of reel silliness into the cult vault. But this Dirty Shame film seems like thin plot designed to get you closer to Johnny Knoxville, and a fantastic opportunity to shower our eyes with relaxed pecker-sticks.

If that was your plan, then you definitely succeeded in half of it (if you also intended, then I hope the Knoxville thing worked out for you too). I haven't seen that many strangers' dicks in my face since that tragic summer of Boot Camp for Aspiring Alter Boys.

ZING! I kid, I kid. I love to poke fun. I poke fun because I love. I poke because I'm fun loving. I'm not funny when I'm poking though. This is going nowhere. I don't need a bunch of grief from aspiring alter boys.

But seriously, Priests creep me out the same way clowns creep everyone else out. They have those outfits with who-knows-what on underneath, you can never really tell what they do for money, they like kids a little too much, and they all follow a solitary ring-leader who heads what appears to be little more than jacked-up circus.

Whoa, is that lightning? Sheez.

Man, I hope hell has valet parking.

'Cause I'll need a job.

To end: Waters, I am calling you on your dirty dick-trick. Bygones. Maybe I'll park your car when you visit. But don't bother tipping me. Word.

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