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July 06, 2012

Please note that this is not a review of “Magic Mike,” but rather a telling of my experience going to see the movie and the aftermath. So, there won’t be any thumbs going up or down in any way, shape, or form. Particularly into body cavities.


Please note that this is not a review of “Magic Mike,” but rather a telling of my experience going to see the movie and the aftermath. So, there won’t be any thumbs going up or down in any way, shape, or form. Particularly into body cavities.

It’s been a good run of attention for “Magic Mike” if my Facebook feed last week is any sort of indicator, whether it be from friends or friends of friends, I’ve seen the words “magic,” “Mike,” “penis,” (and all of the more related unsavory terms) and “bacon” an inordinate amount of times to last a lifetime. For the record, the last word has nothing to do with the movie as I’m just a fan of every Facebook page having to do with bacon. So, that all said, I had to see the movie. I just had to... because my wife wanted to see it.

Yes, I’m “that guy.”

Of course, I only write about it now, a week since “Magic Mike”’s opening because the shame has abated and I feel confident enough in my manhood to write about it. As sort of cleanse and reinvigoration of testosterone, I went to the North Pole, hunted wolves, and fought Chuck Norris to the death... you can pretty much figure out the outcome of that match. And, no, I’m not writing this from heaven.

In any case, normally, I would never want to see a movie such as this because it’s a basic affront to my barbarian level understanding of manhood - “Me no see other man’s junk. Me no likey.” Of course, this is just a surface reaction. That little bit of intelligence that actually resides in my brain knows that I won’t magically switch my sexual preference because I see Channing Tatum pelvic thrusting... oops, forgot to say SPOILER ALERT! I hope I didn’t ruin the movie for you.

Seriously, it’s more about avoiding the possibility of seeing another man’s junk because, well, I don’t particularly care for it. And to see another man’s ass as well. If some sort of quota existed for seeing man ass, I’m pretty sure anyone that sees “Magic Mike” will exceed the limit by, at the very least, infinity after watching this movie... oops, forgot to say SPOILER ALERT again! Sorry about that. Anyway, I was just born this way.

So, now on to the actual events because I’m starting to protest too much.

The morning of what I like to call the Emasculation Event, actually going to see “Magic Mike” was still pendulous because I was fighting hard to see another movie instead. But, I was only delaying the inevitable. Unfortunately, it was too hot to wear a trench coat, hat, and those sunglasses with the fake nose and mustache in order to hide my identity. Fortunately, that costume was too hot to wear because it’s exactly something Anderson Cooper would have worn to see this movie until recently, which wouldn’t help my cause to remain a chest-thumping brute.

So, there I was, a man with his wife, driving with a scarlet W on his Kenny G concert tee. The W standing for Woman, of course. Although Wimp and Withoutballs would ably apply, to both Kenny G and I, of course. As I pulled into the parking lot dreading to leave my car, I imagined all of the terrible things to come and to my horror, they all came true.

ME: Two tickets for Magremsdljfs...
TICKET SELLER: Okay, two tickets for MAGIC MIKE! That’s MAGIC MIKE! Two tickets for THIS GUY! The one with the KENNY G T-SHIRT! You know, you are the seventh husband that tried that mumble shit on me. Enjoy seeing, MAGIC MIKE!
ME: I hate you.

ME: Here you go...
TICKET RIPPER: Thank you, sir. MAGIC MIKE in theatre nine!
ME: Thanks, just give me my tickets, please.
TICKET RIPPER: The tickets? Oh yeah, the ones for MAGIC MIKE! Sure thing. But I do need your card first.
ME: What are you talking about? What card?
TICKET RIPPER: Well, obviously you DON’T NEED YOUR MAN CARD anymore, ma’am.
ME: I hate you.

ME: Excuse me...
GUY LEAVING BATHROOM: No problem. Where’s your sax, homo?
ME (looking into mirror): I hate you.

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating some of the above, but it sure felt like the dialogue was correct. Anyway, my wife and I were actually late to the movie... but not really. You see, I have this thing about missing previews. I hate it. Tell me it’s not an essential part of the moviegoing experience and I will say that you are the type of fool that also thinks Ringo Starr wasn’t an essential part of The Beatles! Oh, wait, bad example.

Anyway, when we entered the theater, it was dark as a trailer was ending, then, suddenly as a shot of adrenaline that hits you before you come face-to-face with Chuck Norris in a battle to define all battles and become the paragon of the word for all of human history, both past and future, a light hit to start the movie and the audience was illuminated.

And, it was nothing but a sea of women - young and old, giggly and serious, biting lips and fixing their gaze on the screen. And, scattered about were gay men - in shape and “bears,” well dressed and well dressed, pinching nipples and even pinching their own. Even more rare a species during this Emasculation Event were myself and two other saps I quickly saw wearing those glasses with a fake nose and mustache. At that moment I knew that I should have damned the weather and my not being smart enough to at least wear the glasses with the fake nose and mustache.

Quickly, my wife and I found a pair of seats, in between a group of about seven housewives and a group of sorority girls. It was like a porn homepage come to life. In my head, I asked, “Where are the BBW Transvestites?” and as I looked further down the seats, in the corner by the Exit sign, there the BBW trannies were. I could assume the latter part because they all had a big tub of popcorn squarely over their crotch area and they weren’t eating anything. Then, the movie started...

As I said, this will not be a review, so I won’t go deep into “Magic Mike” in every sense of the meaning. But, I will say at one point, what I found out later to be a gay couple sitting behind us started to jibber jabber a bit too much. When it started, I just closed my eyes, conflicted on the course of action I should take. My policy during a movie is to shut the fuck up and watch and since this is the only sentence in this whole piece that contains profanity, you should know the degree of seriousness. Yes, I know, I have a problem.

So, the couple behind us had very deep voices and in my mind the following thoughts sped through my mind:

1) They both have deep voices, so I’ll assume they’re big dudes and/or one of them was that guy that faked like he needed a cane from Boyz II Men.
2) What if this escalates into physical contact between men at a “Magic Mike” showing, am I ready for the excessive and surely endless good-natured ribbing from my pals?
3) Do I really want to reveal myself sans glasses with a fake nose and mustache and stand up to tell these guys to keep their yapping down, or even better, shut their pieholes completely, which would show my assumed interest in “Magic Mike”?

It was a lose-lose proposition. So, I did the basic turn of my head and politely asked if they could keep quiet please. I’m glad I took the less angry route because the couple were two buff black dudes wearing muscle t-shirts holding lube and and a feather with eyes that said, “You’re next, bitch.” I felt like Ving Rhames’ character in “Pulp Fiction” except without completion and the necessity of getting medieval on their ass, which would actually be a bad thing when you consider the context.

In any case, the movie eventually ended and we left. I felt ashamed. But, mostly pissed off when I realized I forgot to retrieve my man card at the door. However, I survived. And soon, I’d be making my trek toward the North Pole to capture my manhood again. Looking back, it wasn’t so bad, which is easier to say because, soon, I’ll be off to see another movie to seal the deal on masculinity restored.

I’m looking forward to seeing Katy Perry’s two talents in 3-D.

This post originally appeared on TempleHorses.com.