Rock. My. Face. Off.

Some movies you anticipate as though you’re back at sixteen years of age, anticipating a life of collegiate debauchery. I mean, seriously. I mean, for real. I mean, holy fucking shit, “Spaaartaaans!”

A lot of my contemporaries are weary of these kinds of films. They deconstruct the gleaming outcroppings of abdominal muscle on the sword-waving/spear-throwing male heroes – they purse their lips at the sexual splendour of females adorned with vaguely “ethnic” jewelry and billowing veils/skirts.

I couldn’t live like that. I don’t consider myself a mindless twat for this – although perhaps others would. That’s OK. The movie might still end up sucking – but I will nevertheless have this glorious period of wishin’ and hopin’ – and no one can take it away from me.

2 thoughts on “Rock. My. Face. Off.

  1. “They deconstruct the gleaming outcroppings of abdominal muscle…”

    Better than desconstructing the Washington Monument as a phallic symbol of the male patriarchy. (Not kidding. Maybe you are not old enough to recall that.) It got to be that anything longer than wide seemed to oppress women, or at least the feminists who “spoke on their behalf”.

    Personally, I think Marilyn Monroe spoke on feminists’ behalf when she sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”. (smile)

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