Home > Everything Else > “She’s no butterfly, Tony, she’s all pelvic thrust”

“She’s no butterfly, Tony, she’s all pelvic thrust”

Cristal Connors: I’ve had dog food.
Nomi Malone: You have?
Cristal Connors: Mmm-hmmm. Long time ago. Doggy Chow. I used to love Doggy Chow.
Nomi Malone: I used to love Doggy Chow, too!
[Cristal and Nomi touch their chips together]

I admitted today on a message board I frequent to having seen Showgirls — which everyone naturally acknowledges is the greatest movie of all time — at least six times. This prompted another user to demand that I justify my existence. Glad to, monsieur!

You know how it starts. You’re at a party, maybe just a gathering of friends who know each other pretty well, jokes and conversation flowing, along with the cheap beer and screwtop wine, and then the conversation somehow turns to So Bad It’s Good. You’ve been there: maybe there’s some small talk about Plan 9 From Outer Space first and then somebody goes OH HELL NAW and brings up Tommy Wiseau and it’s totally fun, because somebody might put a lampshade on their head at any moment — in a completely ironic kind of way! Except after your ex-roommate suggests playing Dark Side of the Moon while watching the Wizard of Oz, somebody else whispers something about “getting real,” and all of  a sudden you’re watching this amazing shit happen on the TV set, and you can’t believe they spent $45 million to make this piece of crap, let alone that Joe Eszterhas farted this out of his brain and some executive picked it up and showed it to a fresh-from-Basic Instinct Paul Verhoeven, who then exclaimed something in Dutch that translated roughly to HOLY FUCK, I MUST FILM THIS RIGHT NOW.

Because it’s dogshit, and it’s without the slightest bit of grace, style or even competence, and every actor in this film gives the worst performance of their life and also appears to be gasping for air in every scene in which they appear, especially Kyle Maclachlan, who seems to be strung out on cough syrup and Little Debbie cakes and/or blackmailed by the Mob. There’s so much pointless hand-waving, crotch-thrusting bullshit going on in this movie that it becomes its own language; the film literally invents its own code, laid out in full within the first 20 minutes and repeated faithfully throughout, and that code slowly types out a message from the people who created Showgirls, over and over and over again: FUCK YOU WE HAVE YOUR MONEY NOW.

It’s positively the worst thing you can do to your eyeballs. It makes eardrums bleed. It destroys brain matter. It’s worse than Gigli, really. Except for one thing: it’s amazing.

So now that I have your attention, I’m going to make you be me, and stare at this monstrosity until you squeak. Eventually it’s over, and you laugh and your friends laugh and you all talk for hours about how bad that movie was! That movie was sooooooo bad! And then you order calzones from the 24-hour calzone place. Or something like that.

I stole your money and then I bought this shirt; I'm an asshole!

You go home and then one day you find yourself sneaking down to the Blockbuster at 11 PM just to “see if they have anything good to watch”…and coming home with IT. One thing leads to another, and then…WHAM! It’s just you and Nomi Malone and Kyle Macwhatshismug and she’s motorboating all over his johnson inna pool. Because godknows why, it’s just happening. And there are knife fights! And somebody breaks a leg, and then some Kris Kristofferson dude shows up and beats the crap out of somebody. And then gets his shit served cold. And then it’s over. You watch it again, because no matter how many times you see it, you’re never positive that it actually happened.

It becomes a Problem. Lost days, weeks, months and years follow. You wander the streets in search of a fix. The Blockbuster guy won’t rent to you anymore. Everybody Knows. Everybody looks the same to a junkie, just another possible mark on the way to a fix. This is before the Internet could give you movies, so don’t ask me about that.

You hit rock bottom one day when you find yourself watching old “Saved By the Bell” episodes just for the Elizabeth Berkeley scenes. It’s not enough, though; it’s never enough. “Bottom” turns out to be relative; you have to get a second job at McDonald’s to afford your rental fees, because the only place that will rent to you is the little mom-and-pop shop that specializes in Korean films and a tiny library of “Hollywood Blockbusters” down the street and they’re totally on to you. You pay the price because you’ve got no other exit. Keep climbing down that rope.

Eventually you come to grips with your strange and terrible addiction. It happens out of the blue one day, but then again, salvation sometimes works that way. “It must be weird,” says Al from the Cheetah Club, staring back at you from a cup of Peets coffee, “not having anybody cum on you.” You drop the cup and run. And keep running. Eventually you end up at an old friend’s doorstep; she takes one look at your eyes and figures the whole scene out. She takes you by the hand and leads you to help.

Years of therapy and support groups follow. Living life one day at a time now. Baby steps, etc. You, um… stuff.

This story was supposed to keep going for quite a bit longer but then I felt like I should maybe go watch Showgirls right away.

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