Gross Me Out
That’s it. I’m declaring a moratorium on gross-out comedies at The Flick Filosopher. I think I’ve found every possible way there is to impugn the sexual maturity of the people who make these movies and of the audiences who think they’re funny. I’ve used every possible synonym and variant of words and phrases like “embarrassing,” “cringe-worthy,” “godawful,” and “oh dear god no make it stop.” I can’t take it anymore. Life is too short. There are flowers to be smelled and babies to be cuddled and puppies demanding a romp in the park. I cannot squander another of my precious few moments upon this earth enduring sophomoric attempts to make the human penis funny.
So this is the last time. Savor it, if you want, for never again will you hear me rail against all that the likes of Tomcats represents. For the record, some of the things I will never write again, not because I no longer believe them but because they have been said, are:
= Homosexuality in and of itself is not funny.
= Masturbation in and of itself is not funny.
= Erections are not funny once you’ve left junior high school.
= Old people acting like they’re still interested in sex is — all together now — not funny.
= Juvenile hang-ups about sex in supposed grownups are not funny.
Tomcats falls into the subcategory of gross-out sex comedies that allege to reveal truths about men and women, which lends itself to another laundry list:
= Marriage is generally not a ball and chain, and if you think it is, don’t get married.
= Women are generally not manipulating devils, castrating bitches, bimbos, or idiots.
= Men are generally not dopes for falling in love.
= Big, fat, sweaty guys rarely bag skinny, skanky, supposedly- gorgeous- but- actually- scary blondes.
= Fat people are not slapstick-clumsy, sexually desperate, or stupid in any greater proportion than the general population.
= The world is not full of models who dress like whores and give blow jobs on the first date.
Does it even matter what this piece of garbage is about? Oh, all right: A bunch of loser guys intent on remaining single (like any woman would want any of them) throw some money in a kitty to be rewarded to the last single guy — wise investing has seen the pot grow to half a mill. Michael (Jerry O’Connell: Mission to Mars, Jerry Maguire) and Kyle (Jake Busey: Enemy of the State, Starship Troopers) are the last two single guys, and Michael needs the money to pay off a gambling debt. So he has to finagle Kyle — who hates “feminist bitches,” ha ha ha — into getting married within 30 days, thereby winning Michael the money.
It’s even worse than it sounds.
Though if you ever wanted to see Jake Busey in a thong and nothing else, here’s your chance.
Why any woman would have the least bit of sexual interest in a complete waste of DNA like Jake, er, Kyle, is a good question, but he seems to have no trouble on that account — he is indeed the professional tomcat he thinks he is, god knows why. So Michael really has his job cut out for him… though Kyle’s “one that got away” — a gal he mistreated horribly long ago, we are unsurprised to learn — may be the answer. She is Natalie, a street cop played with laughingly little ability or even understanding of what is meant by the word “acting” by Shannon Elizabeth (Jack Frost).
Her profession allows the movie to wallow in the most blatantly gratuitous gun battle ever committed to film. There is also much wallowing in approximately 7th-grade-level ogling of artificially enhanced women: the number of breast implants on display here is astounding, and the amount of silicone on a gal is inversely proportional to talent… not that anyone distinguishes him- or herself here. No, never mind distinguish… no one fails to embarrass himself, and the entire human race to boot.
Gregory Poirier — you know who you are, Gregory — wrote and directed this mean-spirited, juvenile, disgusting, endlessly annoying movie. I hope his mother never sees it. A woman should never have to know that she spawned a child who actually thought that the sight of a diseased testicle being kicked around hospital corridors would entertain people.
I’m not making this up. He did. Gregory Poirier. He should be ashamed of himself.