All movies are terrible. Why? Well, they’re not about me. If I was in a movie, then I’d hopefully get a hot chick. And once I had this hot chick, things would start to turn around for me. I’d have money, power, butlers, maids…I’d have it all. Or so I’d think.
Then one night I’d wake up suddenly as if from a nightmare and realize my life was empty and vacant. I’d leave my wife, throw myself into my work, and strive for greatness. I’d probably have an affair with one of those maids I got, too.
Our eyes would meet across a crowded room. She’d be serving crab puffs to my stuffy business associates. I’d stride over, my eyes never straying from her angelic face. “I must have you,” I’d whisper. She’d melt in my arms. We’d slip away out the back door for a night of wild passion in the guest house. The maid would understand me. She’d take me to the highest of heights. She’d make me feel real. She’d know I love crab puffs.
Our love would grow. We’d have a child. The child would grow. Our love would fade. We’d still have the child. The child would fade (he’s a video artist).
A knock on the door. “A divorce!” I’d scream. The door would slam. She’d leave me, and I’d be left with nothing. I never appreciated her. I never truly understood what she went through for me.
I’d pine. I’d weep. I’d cry and moan. Our child would create a video montage of my time with his mother. I’d cry more. He’d be a terrible video artist. I’d cry because I’d spent $120,000 educating him to produce this drivel. But I’d also cry for her. Because I’d know she’s really gone. My dearest one. My little maid. The love of my life.
We flash to thirty years in the future. I’m old. My limbs are weak; my soul weaker still. I’m kept alive by machines. My son cares for me. He comments on the irony that the father of a video artist is slowly fading away. I comment on the irony that the only thing my unemployed video artist son is wiping lately is my ass. He laughs. But not that much.
The door flies open: it’s her. She’s aged well. A lot better than I. She’s as gorgeous as the day I met her, but…her beauty is now refined. It resonates.
She’s the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen. She’s holding a tray of crab puffs. My heart begins to beat on its own for the first time in seven years.
“I…I now know how much you meant to me,” I stumble. “You are everything…you’re…my…my only.”
We embrace. We sob. Good sobs. We tell our son to put the camera away. That this wasn’t the time for that.
“But this is beautiful!” he exclaims. He holds up his fingers to frame an imaginary camera angle. The actual camera would match his fingers; we’d fade to black; the credits would roll.
That’s a freakin’ movie, people. That’s how they should be made.
So attention, Hollywood: start making movies about me.
Because that’s the only way I’m getting any of these hot chicks.