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Sunday, May 30, 2004

I watched the worst movie in the history in the universe. So bad I will not even mention it by name, except that it starts with a T and ends in a Fifth Element. Ummm... I am going to have nightmares in which I am heroically bedded by Bruce Willis EVERY DAMN NIGHT in the midst of explosions and world-saving.

You know, this is an old rant, but I'm REALLY, REALLY SICK of the action-hero woman, NO MATTER HOW POWERFUL OR ASS-KICKINLY AWESOME SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN, becomes POWERLESS whenever it becomes the Hero's job to Make Her Feel Love. As soon as she is threatened by the villian, her job as a warrior ends, and her job as a woman begins: be passive and take the missionary position while the man does the real work. I could barf.

So, this, in particular, is why I want to see my Lesbian Prostitute Takes Over The World Movie, ONLY for the sweet revenge. She will be soulless and evil and kill every man in sight and then turn the human race back into cute little monkeys and rule over them as their lord and savior. She will wear poofy baby blue and carry a whip.

(sigh) Oh, but you KNOW she would get lonely at the top. Yeah, sure, I'd let her decide she needs a man, but then she just (Leticia's horrible fantasies deleted) and then licks her lips and burps.

...So, I am going to be scrubbing my brain for the next few days. The problem with movies that pile on the visual appeal and lack substance (AI, Looney Tunes) is that they get STUCK IN MY BRAIN for half a week as I try to figure out if ANY of that has ANY redeeming value. Of course it doesn't, I was just giving my subconscious the benefit of the doubt. It's more like the flashier bits of the movie flash before my eyes and I say "oooh, pretty" before the bus driver waves his hand in my face and says, "ma'am?" "Ma'am?"

For the record, boys, my dream boy is NOT Bruce Willis. My dream boy is in fact Bruce Willis run through a meat grinder (KIDDING! That would be my, um, mistress, but male. My mister. That's it. Come here, mister.). No, no, no. EVERY boy has the image of the Perfect Boyfriend locked inside themselves, somewhere, and he would in fact have broad shoulders and poofy hair and he would thump his hands on the table a lot and he could (more fantasies deleted) but most importantly, he knows exactly when to hold me and stroke my hair and tells me that everything's okay, but he ALSO knows when I'm in The Mood (the OTHER mood) and need him to go off to his room to play Super Ultra Fighters DX P20 for the next five hours. Some girls need some fucking SPACE, you know?

AND THAT SPACE IS NOT BETWEEN BRUCE WILLIS'S LEGS! LET ME MAKE THAT CLEAR! NOBODY WANTS TO BE HIS BITCH! LEAST OF ALL THE HETEROSEXUAL FEMALE POPULATION! WE WANT A NICE, SENSITIVE MAN WHO UNDERSTANDS THAT OUR WORLD-SAVING ABILITIES TO NOT BEGIN AND END AT OUR WILLINGNESS TO HAVE SEX WITH HIM!!

(whooo... phaaaa... whooo... phaaaa...)

More importantly, though, the Iraq war has made me really contemplative about how depraved humans really are, and suffice to say if Hollywood movies are really our power fantasies than we are 100% fucked. Doomed. We're ALL going to hell in a Mercedes and nobody cares about the bikers we're going to run over to do it. Oh, and we'll kill some aliens, just for good measure.

...Yeah, that's what the ideal man does. The ideal man kills aliens and runs from cops and says clever catchphrases. The ideal woman knows kung-fu and oral sex, in that order.

I am going to knit and read Gloria Stienem while listening to Ani Difraco now, thank you very much.

Leticia

(No, I don't like Ani Difranco much at all. Slam poetry feels like Chinese water torture to me, but that's another rant.)
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