The modern male, as sad as it may seem, will come no closer to happiness with a living female, then they will with the women of the silver screen. Imagine: the most beautiful one per cent of the population flitting through choreographed stage parts, scantily clad, their every last word and witticism the product of seven deliberate re-writes.
In reality, the female majority is no more than semi-coherent shopping machines who respond better to a savage beating delivered by an amateur rapper/crack dealer than to any loving utterance or floral arrangement. The true tragedy is that every living male spends no less than eight hours a day dreaming of ways to trick one of these daffy creatures into spreading their legs, only to fail miserably and drown their sorrows by masturbating in the dark to the latest Lara Croft web comic.
Despite all Hollywood’s scheming and calculation, the same five women, if you look very closely, are repeatedly churned out in every movie or TV show. As the month progresses (or whenever I’m not too lazy to get some writing in) I’ll list the five female archetypes starting with the most annoying.
1. The Shrew
The Shrew’s insipid braying is matched only, in sheer wrist slitting annoyance, by her maddening powers of self delusion. They are victims in their own minds. They are mistreated, and unfulfilled. Never mind that these women chose to not only marry their spouse, despite his pre-existing failings, but they, in most cases, also benefit greatly from the very behaviour they claim to loathe.
Take Adrian Balboa for example. Her role in all five Rocky films extends no further than an almost ceaseless wailing toward slope-browed Rocky, telling him how dumb he is to keep boxing. No doubt she believes, in her special mind, she has Rocky’s best interest at heart. After all, he was no Nobel Laureate to begin with. I can confidently state that being cracked with 500 flush haymakers per fight did nothing to help matters in the brain department. Yet, Adrian, the biggest beneficiary from Rocky’s beatings, is too self absorbed to realize her own hypocrisy.
One could argue boxing is a barbaric, primeval sport. Personally, I find it perhaps our most important. It is the only sport which links so purely to our latent aggression – to the core of our evolution, long since submerged underneath mounds of supplication and passive aggressive smiling. Only a fool or liar will tell you humans have transcended violence. The urge to destroy, to gnash, to pummel are very much a part of every human being’s spirit. Over the years, unseen forces have reduced the populace to cowardice, yet the urge for pain refuses to leave. Though we smirk as we watch an Iraqi city reduced rubble by a flying device, safe, three miles in the air; cheer as two homeless men fight for a spare chicken wing in the alley behind a Howard Johnson; and clap with gusto as Arnold snaps a man’s spine, uttering a barely intelligible witticism as his victim quivers in the throes of death; we hide behind Joe Law’s apron strings when the violence we so covet turns its horns on us. Adrian should be grateful that Rocky makes a living – her living – by standing toe to toe with another man, swinging away until one of them is destroyed. Instead, Adrian squawks and admonishes, oblivious to just how lucky she was to have ever found the Italian lunkhead in the first place.
Pugilism is the only thing that saved Adrian from a career cleaning bird shit and cat piss while the neighbourhood toughs bullied her on her walks home. Without boxing, she was destined for a life in her alcoholic brother’s spare room, each night plugging her ears so as to drown out the moans emanating from whichever porn he’s jacking off to in the next room. Such a miserable life would have led, two or three years down the road, to an almost certain suicide. Would Adrian have been able to give up the fur coats, the mansion and the cars? Would she have been content sending their son – the genetic product of two semi-literate halfwits – to a public school? In Philadelphia? During the Reagan era? No doubt the poor child would have ended up fighting in the first Gulf War and come back a shellshocked madman, destined to toil away at a Heinz factory for the rest of his life, dodging shadows of the Iraqi phantoms who stalk his demented mind’s every turn.
What if Rocky had listened to Adrian, and stopped fighting after the first Creed brawl? What would she have done as the welfare checks became smaller and the radius a poor white girl like her could freely roam without being raped by the thugs left in White Flight’s wake dwindled to a block? She would have thrown the world’s biggest tantrum, ridiculing Rocky for not being able to provide for her. Divorce would be imminent and Rocky left a simple, confused loner.
In Defence of Adrian: By the time the fifth Rocky movie limped to a slow death at the box office, Rocky’s brain damage is so severe, he not only takes on a male lover – with AIDS no less – but allows their domestic squabble to spill to the streets in one of the most anti-climatic fight scenes ever seen on film. Maybe Adrian was right all along. It stands to reason that if he would have retired earlier, not only would Tommy Gunn have been a mere fantasy – his oiled pecs and rippling biceps haunting Rocky’s subconscious – but perhaps Rocky would have retained enough brain cells to ward off his complete financial collapse.
2. The Free Spirit