Let’s All Get Drunk And Go See Magic Mike
Here’s what I’m saying: Can we please all just get together on the premiere date, go get drunk on jewel-toned martinis like some busted version of Sex and the City, eat a sampler of deep-fried appetizers while giggling about how we should really have a salad, and then go get rowdy in the theater and scream at the mantreats to take it off? Can we please? There is seriously nothing that would make me happier.
I am just so excited to finally see a film that just takes a bunch of gorgeous men, cuts out all of the pesky middlemen such as plot, dialogue, or artistic integrity, and just injects our veins with a near-lethal dose of assless chaps and butts that look like two glorious scoops of butter pecan ice cream. I mean, really, Channing Tatum has been playing the hot high school jock/be-wifebeatered dancer for like ten years now — homeboy is 32 and still looks gorgeous hitting on some girl outside of chemistry class. The man is beautiful in such a delectably bro-y way, who is better for this film? And before his fame, he actually was a male stripper — apparently this is semi-based on his experiences… but that is getting too into plot, let’s not overthink this.
And Matthew McConaughey, that precious, slightly weathered blonde. He’s had that sexy, drawling southern gentleman thing going on for several decaes, and the act never gets less attractive. Can his character smoke weed and play naked bongos? Can he be the veteran stripper that teaches the young upstarts the ropes with patience and grace? Can he do full-frontal?
I have no clue who Alex Pettyfer is, but I’m sure you all can help me out there. In any case, he looks beautiful.
Have you guys seen the red band trailer where Matt Bomer just straight-up lays down on top of some woman and shoves his only-barely-obscured-by-a-white-thong crotch in her face? IN HER FACE, YOU GUYS. What is this beautiful, beautiful movie? I don’t know what I appreciate more about it — that someone decided to make this and have that exact scene at one point, or that Matt Bomer, an at least semi-legitimate actor, was like, “Hell, yeah, I’ll put on that thong and rub my weenie all over that woman’s face. Hell yeah.” Everyone involved with this picture deserves the Nobel Prize.
And though I have never watched True Blood (I know, I know), I can safely say that seeing Joe Manganiello as a character named — I kid you not — Big Dick Richie will be amongst the highlights of my year. That man just looks like an amalgam of every bored housewife’s fantasy, covered with baby oil and smiling at you with his chest muscles. We are all that bored housewife, Joe, we are all her — our bodies are ready.
Look, all I’m saying is that movies this perfect don’t come around very often, so I think we just need to put on some oversized sunglasses, get outrageously day drunk, and go and cat-call a movie screen for an hour or two. We all deserve to let loose and just stare at some aesthetically perfect men every once in a while — we work so goddamn hard. I’ll see you all on premiere day, I’ll be the one with the apple vodka and the “MATT BONER” shirt. I should be easy to spot.
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My ears listened to what they wanted me to believe.
3. Don’t get mad, get everything.
But I am here to talk about realities, realities that are based on experiences, guy talks (who cares about that?) and late night chats with good female friends of mine.
Many people know of Jack Kerouac’s fiction, but few know of his penchant for recording his dreams.