Just finished watching Grindhouse Presents: Planet Terror, the Robert Rodriguez film that was part one of the Grindhouse double feature that ran in theaters a while back.  The second feature, Death Proof, is a Quentin Tarantino film which I saw some time ago on DVD and loved (don’t think for a second I’m a Tarantino kiss-ass: among other things, I thought both Kill Bills sucked.  But Death Proof, and in particular Kurt Russel, truly rocked).

So I’ve been wanting to see Planet Terror forever, but until tonight just never got it together.  Now that I have though, I can honestly say that the worst thing about it is that I’m really pissed I missed the double feature in the theater (oh, and that Tarantino had a small part in it – that dude may be good at a lot of shit, but acting isn’t one of them).  If you haven’t seen one or the other Grindhouse feature, don’t let the mixed reviews or negative comments you may have heard or read keep you away from them (unless the “them” you’re staying away from are the morons who thought the films were lousy).  They were both huge fun, though not recommended for those who a) don’t like gore or b) are my mother.

None of which is my point here.  I actually don’t like writing reviews much unless I can say something mean, and I don’t have anything nasty to say about either Grindhouse film (except for that “Tarantino is a shitty actor” part).  This has just been a ruse to bring you to along to a question that occurred to me during the film.  One of the characters, referring to the evil doctor he had just killed (using about nine bullets from a six-shooter), says something along the lines of: “I never liked him – he was about as useless as a pecker on a pope”.

Which got me thinking about pope penis.  Not THE pope’s penis per se, but pope penis in general. Specifically, what happens when (there’s just no gentle way to put this) a pope pops a boner.  I’m not talking about night-wood here, that’s un-avoidable and (one assumes) forgivable.  I’m talking about those moments when, after a busy day of condemning birth control and homosexuality, the pope kicks back with a glass of wine and a tray of communion wafers with Gouda and visions of alter-boys start dancing in his head (that’s rather presumptuous; perhaps there are visions of hot nuns instead).  At any rate, the question is this: what’s a pope to do about his papal wood?

Is he ashamed?  Alarmed?  Depressed?  Insecure?  Angry?  Does he just punch it until it goes away?  Does he open his robe and put a tiny pope hat on it and pretend it’s waving at him?

This is the kind of shit I think about.  Really.

This is a post from: Bradford Schmidt's blog, Bone In The Fan.

Grindhouse

What does this photo say to her ex-boyfriend? Not so much.

So I’m at the bank this afternoon making some changes to my account with one of the managers and somehow get into a conversation about ex-girlfriends and the relative perceptions of men and women.  The manager is an attractive young woman, married, in her 20’s, who’s going to be visiting her family for a week without her husband.  We’re talking about how miserable it would be to be married to someone that didn’t trust you, she’s telling me how she can’t understand why none of her friends can believe that her husband is letting her go on this trip alone, I’m thinking it’s time that she learn a simple fact: the reason people are surprised she’s going alone is that every guy knows that there’s nothing easier to bag than an ex-girlfriend.

Her expression makes me think for a moment that perhaps I’ve stepped over the appropriate/inappropriate conversation line ( oh god, not again), but then I realize that what I think may be a look of disturbed shock at a customer’s comment is actually a dawning understanding.  She looks at me and starts to laugh and nod.

“There’s nothing easier to bag than an ex-girlfriend” she says, “I’m glad you mentioned that -  I’m actually having lunch with an ex-boyfriend when I go home next week.”

I tell her:  “Well, I can guarantee he’s going to be looking for anything that he can interpret as a green light. Guarantee it.”

I tell her about my own experience:  My wife Joanna and I had been dating for a couple of years when she moved away and we broke up.  For five years we didn’t see each other except for a single cup of coffee in Brooklyn (after which I went up to a friend and said “she’s pretty hot, isn’t she?” referring to Joanna, to which my friend responded “if I thought that stabbing you in the throat with a fork would have gotten her into bed with me, I would have done it”).  I subsequently got married (to someone I shouldn’t have even been dating, much less marrying), and Joanna moved in with a drummer in Ohio. In 1992 my marriage mercifully exploded. In 1993 a mutual friend of ours got married, I tracked Joanna down (thanks to her sister who gave up her phone number after I convinced her that I was no longer a threat – thanks Macon!) and invite her to come to New York for our friend’s post-wedding celebration.  She can stay with me at my pad in Brooklyn of course.  It’ll be great.

And here is where it all went all pear-shaped for her boyfriend.  Apparently unaware of how fucking stupid it is to let your girlfriend go stay with an ex-boyfriend for a week, he said nothing about what was going through my mind (and don’t think that the fact he’d never met me is any kind of an excuse. Though I know he never defiled my wife with it – that’s my position and I’m sticking to it – I have to assume he had a penis of some sort, and therefore by definition must have known exactly what I was thinking).  Not that it would have mattered if he HAD said something; Joanna, like the manager at the bank today, assumes that being in a relationship (married or otherwise) somehow causes men to simply stop trying to bed them.  This appears to be a farily common belief among women.  This is also incorrect.  The presence of a boyfriend in Ohio (or in the same room for that matter) isn’t a barrier that registers for most men.  We may not put a full court press on, but we’ll definitely look for those subtle clues that say “hey there fella, when I look deep those blue eyes of yours I forget all about whatshisname and all I can think about is what your hands would feel like on my ass”.  We like those clues.  We’re constantly looking for them.  And when it comes to ex-girlfriends, we’re really good at recognizing them.

Look, I’m not saying that every ex-girlfriend will answer the call to cheat on their husbands or boyfriends at the drop of a hat.  We understand that some women are happily married (we’re never convinced women are happy with their new boyfriends) even if it’s hard to believe they could be happy without us in their lives anymore.  It’s just that those are the women we aren’t really interested in having dinner with.  I’m also not claiming that every ex-boyfriend even wants to bang his ex’s; plenty of guys are happily married, hate their ex, in a relationship, or gay.  And I’m not saying that every guy can call any ex-girlfriend up and take her to bed.  Guys that have restraining orders against them, that are being hunted down by family members of their ex’s, or are simply major asshats should probably stick to internet porn.  But I am saying that all things being equal, as a general rule we see ex-girlfriends as the proverbial fish in a barrel.  Really sexy female fish that we’ve seen naked and know how to please. And since we’re sure our ex’s are still horny for us, we’re walking tall around them with the confidence of Brad Pitt hanging out in a girls’ dorm at Smith.  We actually take it as a personal insult if you won’t fuck us; what’s wrong with you, anyway?

Point being ladies, if your boyfriend or husband raises some issues about you going to hang out with an ex (particularly if he’s single), give him a fucking break.  He’s not accusing you of looking to get laid; he just knows the reality of the situation you are heading into.  He knows the guy sitting with you is going to be reminiscing about that time in the back of his Pinto, or on the roof of his building, or in the shower at your parents house, and probably be sporting at least partial wood while he looks for any opportunity to add another entry to his spank bank.  And no man wants another guy sitting at a dinner table with his wife or girlfriend, thinking about the sex they used to have and getting a hard-on.  Sorry – we just aren’t cool with it.

As for me and Joanna, well I’m assuming you can put two and two together. Joanna phoned Ohio 3 days after arriving at my house to tell her (now ex) boyfriend that she was only coming home to Ohio to pack her stuff up before moving back to New York to live with me.  I Won!  Do I feel bad about the guy she left with a broken heart and a house full of drums?  Not even a little.  And I consider myself a pretty sensitive cat, so you can imagine how a real douchebag might approach this.

This is a post from: Bradford Schmidt's blog, Bone In The Fan.

There’s Nothing Easier To Bag Than An Ex-Girlfriend