As an idealistic youngster, I like and respect Michael Moore. I understand that every time he makes a movie, half the world takes up arms and points out that he forgot to cross a T or whatever and that maybe he eats puppies and that’s why he’s overweight, and it’s possible that he’s actually Satan’s liberal brother. He doesn’t tempt the righteous and punish the wicked, but he does leave crumbs in the bed and tries to convince you to order more fried chicken. Damn you, Satan’s brother! But that aside, I still like him.
The way Moore makes movies is to take a topic that makes you uncomfortable if you’re rich and white, and kick the ever loving shit out of it. I can appreciate that, as a poor person, but I feel he’s not putting the maximum amount of effort into it. He’s covered capitalism, health care, school violence, 9/11 and Roger. But there’s more to the world than that, and far more that needs to be ham fistedly exposed in a one-sided yet poignant manner for its inherent chicanery. Fortunately, I’ve devised a list of topics I could easily Michael Moore if I had access to a budget, equipment and a lithe young sound woman who could make my voice sound less like Truman Capote with gas and more like a dude whose name is probably something awesome like Rock Longshank or Adam Smasher.
The last hard hitting documentary about strippers starred Demi Moore and a greased up Burt Reynolds and was neither a documentary nor hard-hitting. But it did suck. That’s not an upside, but it’s true. Striptease sucked and Demi Moore is as interesting to watch as spackle is to eat.
I like to think the stripper world could be cracked wide open in a way that alternates between hilarious montages of ladies falling off the pole and deeply moving stories of women from Flint who turned to stripping because they lost their jobs as neurosurgeons. They will be the bustiest goddamn neurosurgeons you’ve ever seen. One will be named Cristal, pronounced like the champagne, a mother of 6 who lives in a uHaul with her husband, who has been unemployed ever since GM built a factory on his mud farm, and then closed it down. He’s been trying to find a new source of mud, but all mud has been outsourced to Canada and Japan, where everyone is rich and respectful and free from gonorrhea. But guess who’s not free from gonorrhea. Cristal. She got it from the pole. And she has no health insurance to treat it. And it’s George Bush’s fault.
I have to confess ulterior motives for this topic – as an accomplished wanker in my own right, I’m sometimes stricken with a sourceless fear. Remember how when you were a kid, you were really used to your mom’s cooking, and then one day you ate at a friend’s place and the food was something totally different than you’d ever eaten before, and you loved it, and for a moment your brain tried to fathom all the houses in all the world, and all the different meals that must be cooked and enjoyed each and every day that you’ll never know the taste of? What if masturbation is like that? What if there are people in Mumbai right now who are masturbating on a whole different level than you? Like if you were even in the next room and had an incline what was going on, you’d shit a literal brick. And if you got a tiny pamphlet written in 6 languages on how to do it yourself, it would blow your goddamn mind.
A film needs to be made to set this to rest once and for all because there’s never an occasion in real life when you can actually ask anyone else, besides a phone sex operator or a drunk girl, how they masturbate. And woe be to you if you’re one of those rumored guys out there wanking with friends over porno and playing that ookie cookie game because you’re making the world a worse place to live in. Global warming, subprime mortgage scams and razor burn are all caused by you.
Yeah, you’re probably thinking about that Supersize Me flick right now, but that movie was so far off point it’s barely comprehensible. Remember that scene where he tries to eat a whole meal in his truck and it takes him like 5 hours and he vomits? That was literally the most horseshit scene that has ever been committed to film ever, and that includes the entirety of Battlefield: Earth.
I don’t want another story exposing corporate greed or how maybe one burger chain sometimes slips a migrant worker into the mix and then charges his family when they have to clean the remnants of his boots out of the Killdozer or whatever. I don’t want a story about how litigious some restaurant chains are (I already wrote one). I just want to know what makes a McNugget so f*cking delicious.
Ideally I picture a small town McDonald’s in the heartland where McNuggets are made by hand by an elderly lady and her kind of hot in a non-intimidating way granddaughter, according to an old corporate recipe. And who knows, maybe the secret is love, or cocaine, I’m not going to cast aspersions, it’s a documentary and it shouldn’t try to sound too judgmental, we’ll just put it out there.
When I was like 15 or so I remember actually seeing a documentary about boobs and at the time I thought it was the most awesome thing ever. And despite the fact that nearly ever boob in the movie was like a cantaloupe someone had stored in a port-a-potty, terrible to gaze upon in nearly every way, I still watched it to the very end in the hopes that a parade of awesome would roll out. It never did. Instead I learned that women like their boobs and that some people call them hooters.
A real documentary about boobs would start by showing us Alan Greenspan, or maybe Dick Cheney and they’d be saying some kind of typical Greenspan/Cheney shit like “Quoth the raven ‘nevermore!’” and then, just as they were about to do something else old and white, a tit would fall on them. And written across the areola would be the name of the movie. And then the rest of the running time would be devoted to interviewing famous and wonderful cleavages. Including some from Flint, Michigan.