On a recent trip to Wal-Mart, I purchased a VHS copy of "Where The Heart Is" starring Natalie Portman. I bought this movie because I expected some wank-potential involved. Unfortunately, I must have had it confused with another Natalie Portman movie I'd heard about, because I found "Where The Heart Is" to be thoroughly un-wankable. I was hoping for girls in swimsuits or something of the sort, but that was not the case. Ms. Portman's performance was certainly above reproach, and there's something sexually fascinating about women afflicted with extreme pregnancy, but within half an hour I came to the horrible realization that I was watching a "chick flick."
My first experience with the infamous "chick flick" genre happend when I was perhaps 10 or 11 years old. If I recall, I saw "Fried Green Tomatoes" with my Grandmother at a local theatre. At the time, I had no idea what a "chick flick" was, but I knew that somehow, something was WRONG with the movie, and I just couldn't quite put my finger on it. I believe I slept through a great majority of the movie, because whenever I attempted to aim my eyes at the screen, I would feel a strong revulsion in my stomach and be forced to look away. It was just so very, very wrong. I felt violated and ashamed, but I was too embarassed to talk to anyone about it.
It was maybe five years later when I learned what a "chick flick" was and realized that that was what I had seen. I learned that all men feel violated and ashamed after attempting to watch such a movie. I no longer felt like a victim, but a survivor. After that point, I tried to avoid "chick flicks" in the future, with varying degrees of success.
Once I realized that "Where The Heart Is" was a "chick flick," and nobody was going to get naked, I tried to run to the VCR and turn it off, but I found an invisible field repelled me from coming within five feet of the "chick flick" videotape while it was playing. I went into the other room and looked at internet pseudo-pr0n for a while and tried to block out the sound coming from the television, but it continued to mock me:
"Even through these hard times, we've always been like Sisters!"
"Yes, like Sisters! You're so special to me!"
"You're so special to me, too, Sister! I think I'm going to cry!"
"It's okay to cry. We're like Sisters."
"Oh no. You're crying too. This brings back so many memories."
"Yes, I am crying. Happy memories make me cry. I just feel so emotional right now."
"It's alright to feel emotional. Let's talk about Issues. That's what women do when they're like Sisters!"
"Yes, no matter what the Issue, you're always there to talk about it, like a Sister!"
"I Hate Men. Don't you? Men make me cry."
"Absolutely. I'm going to cry right now."
"Oh no! Our other friend, who has always been like a Sister to us, was just killed by a tornado! I think I'm going to cry!"
"It's okay to cry. She was like a Sister to us. Life will never be the same."
CAPTION: 8 years later.
"I can't believe we're still friends after all these years. We've been through so much together. Everything is just the same."
"That's so right. I consider you a Sister. But I still miss our other friend, who was killed by a tornado 8 years ago!"
"I miss her too. She was like a Sister. I'm going to cry."
"It's good to cry. Let's cry."
"I Hate Men."
At this point, I personally had STOPPED crying and started screaming in sheer agony and beating my head against a wall.
It goes on for another 67 hours.
Eventually, after still more musical interludes, Sisters talking about Issues, Sisters Crying, Sisters Hating Men, and Sisters being killed by tornados (or whatever -- I was trying not to pay attention), the credits began to roll. The Repulsion Field around the videotape weakened just enough for me to jump towards the electrical outlet and unplug the VCR.
I don't like "chick flicks."
The point of this is that if you want, you can have my VHS copy of "Where The Heart Is," only played once, only watched 0.2 times. I'd imagine you already have a copy, but if you want this one, it's yours. If not, I'm going to be forced to throw it out.
Let me know.
If you want to know why Lunix is so screwed up, just take a look at the people who use it. Idiocy.