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10.03.04, 04:24
Here's the scene.
You get there late.
Your mates are really pissed off. Good for them. Keeps them on their toes.
"Two ninety nine"
Through a round hole in a glass window, a Nigerian goddess in a UCI uniform serves you your
ticket with a small helping of sour face.
She's darker than the night outside.
"The white shit", she's thinking as you hand over the fare to Hollywood in small change,
cheapster.
You go in.
Magic begins.
The moving pictures.
You've just listened to Jack Nicholson deliver a shitload of mature cheddary lines with a
charming smile worthy of the Beverly Hills' very best portfolio of dental restoration.
Ping!
You've seen a postmenopausal chick (Diane Keaton) get her kit off.
Ouch!
Guess what? It gets better.
He suffers a major herz-schlagg.
Bloody Matrix, baby, revisited.
Hence you see Keanu Reeves walking in handsome and young in a white apron, a doctor to
absolutely die for.
Well Jack doesn't die.
He makes it.
And Jack and Diane, the two old birds make up!
High voltage! Fireworx, soulmates, bombastic sweetastic !
Nah. Not exactly.
Parting the knees of an aged divorcee after a decade or so of post maritally enforced chastity
should come with a health warning.
It poses some serious risks to an "abductor" involved in the operation.
The 50 something uterus gets some traffic through it and the flood gates have been opened.
Well the "jack in the crack" bliss ain't gonna last too long.
Tantrums and tears.
The knee-parting "Perpetrator" gets to dump Ms Princess Celibate and a sa consolation prize,
she gets to screw (errrm...kiss) the young doctor.
Not the end of the world yet.
Here's a few more reasons to stick around.
Diane Keaton apparently is
"the woman to love", so says Jack with the most captivatingly sweet lip pout of his array of
sympathetic facial twists.
He is not the one to fall in love though.
But you, my lucky viewer, are the one to see Nicholson's bare arse devoid of any signs of
manhood, hence the constant references to viagra. Ha!
And for all of the netnicks out there reading this.
(Yep, baby. Start really salivating now)
There is a nice little Messenger high-tech modern romance motif in it too.
Telling you, the couple of old bastards steam the cold plastic keys hot for you!
.and..
no more..from me..
You gotta get yer arse of the sofa.
("Something's gotta give!" is the title)
and get down to the movies.
Easy on the fizz and popcorn. Cloggs your arteries.
I have survived but...
Jesus!
It's almost Midnight. Over 2 bloody hours of great American honeyed lurve experience!
Certainly calls for vodka, mayt!
And ya stomach's rumbling too.
So you go down the local Wok Express for your fix of kung-po and egg-fried rice.
"We close at eleven", we hear at the door.
Inside a bunch of freakin drunk Romanian immigrants give it to the poor Chinese boy.
"But what the hell. You're all right", the Beijing wonder
(jedno oko na Maroko, adin glaz na Kaukaz) looks deep into my eyes somewhat distracted by
Barbara's cleavage and Delilah's short skirt.
We sit. A pot of Chinese tea arrives via a graceful vehicle of a "little China girl".
Romanians drink tomato juice at the table next to us.
"Vee kom hearrrgh hehvehry night and no vodka", says the one with the moustache.
Cursing uglier than the ugliest beasts of Transylvania follows the vodkaless verbal abuse hurled
violently at the waiter by all three.
"Twats!", says the son of Orient in the direction of tomato-vampires.
"Yeah", I think to myself,
"Damn right, Dracula!"
"Why isn't there any fucking vodka, kurwa jebana, in the Wok Fucking Express!?"
