To Hell With The Movies
Brad Pitt Fart For Real
I’m not going to them anymore. I’m not watching until they become more realistic. I’m not watching because they’re all full of shit. I’ll only go back to the movies when actors really screw each other. What we get now is partial views of actors lunging and moaning. I know I can get , but porns are monosyllabic and have lame plots. I want real stories, and I want believable sex, AND I WANT FRONTAL NUDITY. I’m sick and tired of seeing women from the neck up, or in gauzy shots when they get out of bed after a night of torrid love. OK, they’re beginning to show breasts, but I want the whole damn thing. And that goes for guys too. No more wearing jockey shorts when they get out of the sack. No more carefully folded sheets or blankets obscuring their private parts. I want realism. If George Clooney gets laid, I want to see his dick. And I want to see Angela Jolie’s pudendum. And I want to hear Brad Pitt fart. And I want to see beautiful actors taking a dump. Until they do all that, I’m not gonna watch their phony shit anymore.
I want to see male actors actually cry. Right now, practically none can, and they try to hide the fact by lowering their heads, shaking their shoulders, and moaning. That doesn’t cut it. I want to see real male tears and that probably will eliminate nine of 10 working male actors today.
I want people to look like family. Actors playing brothers or sisters look like they belong on different continents in the world. I want real brothers and real sisters. If we can’t have that, lets do away with all families in all movie plots.
I want real fights. Right now, actors clobber the shit out of each other and in the next scene, all they’re sporting is a tiny band aid strategically placed on their foreheads that doesn’t interfere with their natural beauty. When people fight, they lose teeth, they bleed quarts, and bones breaks. To get that, I have to watch the NFL,but that only lasts five months.
I demand , real defecation, real blood, and broken teeth and legs 12 months a year.
Until I get it, I say to hell with the movies.
I’m Dying. Now Leave Me The Hell Alone.
Beating The Odds…
At this point I’m beating the odds. The average American male life span is seventy seven years and I’m deep in my eighties and overall I feel pretty good. But in America once you’ve lived eight decades—they won’t leave you the hell alone.
Want proof? Here is the list of letters (all of them unsolicited) that I got last month: The Neptune Society, Burial at Sea, The Eden Mortuary, A Jewish Cemetery, The Forest Lawn Cemetery & Mortuary, a non-denominatial resting place. That famous final resting place that takes up a large swath of The San Fernando Valley which could be used for public parks, schools, home etc. also sent me a 4 color brochure which must have cost a fortune. The Mountain Society was more discreet. Their letter head had the outline of a stately peak deep in the Canadian Rockies which, after cremation, would be my final resting place.
I say no thank you.
In addition to these kind offers I gets solicitations from lawyers who want to update my will, prepare a living will or just go over my will so that anything I have left (and I’m trying hard as hell not to leave anything) does not go into probate.
They make probate sound worse than death itself.
And on top of these epistles which are going to make my demise better, easier and fairer to my descendants (whom as I mentioned I don’t care a whit about) I constantly get daily reminders about my failing faculties. Over the last month and a half I have received letters offering me a free hearing test, a glossy brochure that rivaled Forest Lawn showing me the smallest, unobtrusive hearing aid, a letter with a discount on prescription glasses, two letters from hospitals extolling their expertise in replacing hips and knees. A warning about the onset of diabetes and a Health Update from the biggest chain of hospitals in California.
I also must include the letters I get about various contraptions. In the last thirty days I have received pamphlets about motorized scooters, wheelchairs, devices to help you get out of the bathtub and bed, reading lamps with magnifying glasses and canes with easy grip handles and no skid tips and, of course, walkers.
And I also get magazines. (Lots of them.) Every month there is a “glossy” from AARP with loads of advice on how to delay disease and death. You’d expect that from The American Association of Retired Persons. But what gets me are the newsletters I get from my unions and guilds I belonged to when I was a working stiff writer and actor. Unions which I whole heartedly support. Unions which give me a pension. Unions which I still take an active part in. But unions who constantly remind me of my impending death. On the back of their monthly magazines they carry pages outlined in black and in a curly cue font listing all the members who kicked the bucket in the past thirty days. I try not to but I always peruse the list. I always find people I worked with, people I wished I worked with, and people I liked or disliked. I look at their age when they passed. I figure how much longer or shorter they lived than I have lived….And I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that there’s no rhyme or reason for death. People I’ve actively detested sometimes crack a hundred and some great guys and gals go in their fifties. It pisses me off.
Incidentally, I categorically refuse to go to memorials or funerals but those those reminders keep coming too.
And now for my final gripe. I’m talking about the solicitations I get from retirement homes. Everybody looks so fucking happy—grown men and women are grinning like idiots over their lusty full of health laughing white haired mothers and fathers who seemingly are in the prime of their life. There seems to be no pain, no decrepitude and certainly no death in these holding facilities. It’s such crap. And along with the grinning inmates these institutions give me lists and lists of amenities they offer. There’s Gourmet dining (which I know includes only pureed stuff that is easy to chew), outings to gardens and museums (I’ve seen them all) workshops in how to use a computer (I know how) arts and handicrafts (I have no interest) weekly variety shows (I cringe when I think of ninety year old broads singing ‘That Old Black Magic’) but despite all these misgivings one day I checked a retirement home out.
My working days were in television and I was getting monthly missives from The Motion Pictures and Television Hospital and Retirement Home asking me when I was coming aboard. Finally I felt it was time to pay them a visit. The Motion Picture Home is just off Mulholland Drive a few miles east of Malibu. It’s an idyllic setting and its’ grassy lawns, well kept grounds, large movie theatre (where the studios show their new releases gratis) heated swimming pool, well stocked gym, airy dining room and small but efficient and immaculate living quarters are all first rate …and all in all it’s one of the better places to go and die. And I support them wholeheartedly but if only they’d stop sending me mail—-I’m not ready yet…and when I do I know how I’m going to do it. Auto-asphyxiation. That’s my route. Hanging myself in the closet while I masturbate. They say that’s the greatest high you can get. (Ask David Carridine—if you could.)
But I’ll put that off for a while. But when I pull (sorry for the pun) it off, you can do anything with my body that you want to…Forget all the burials in the mountains or at sea. Forget the earth burials—or scattering my ashes to the winds. I suggest leaving my withered old body where you found it—in the closet with a rope around my neck, my hand on my crotch and a smile on my face.