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Oscars. Poland. Hot.

Oscars. Poland. Hot.

And the award for “Most Stomach-Turning Extended Metaphor of the Week” goes to…

Our friend at Movie City News, David Poland. Are we at Reverse Shot too hard on Poland? Perhaps, but please keep in mind this man actually makes a living as a writer. So without further ado…

The foreplay started four or five months ago, in most cases, with the object of lust even being in the room. The foreplay would heat and cool as the weeks passed. In Toronto, we found out which films were premature ejaculators, while others got super heated… but still no satisfaction, only more rubbing.

The man is talking about Oscars here. No, really.

Finally, Clint Eastwood was ready to lower the boom and let everyone have their ecstatic release. Come on, Clint… you manly man. You can do it. Bring out those canons and invade that beach and everyone will be able to roll over and get some sleep, assured that we all know that we don’t really have to keep up all the courting for months on end. Sure, we would go out on dates and eat their stuffed mushroom caps and indulge in the delights of dining with incredibly talented celebrities who had no chance of winning anything. But we would happily come home, knowing that Big Daddy Clint made the bed with one-million count Egyptian cotton sheets, fluffed up the pillow, and left an Oscar shaped chocolate for us to enjoy before we rested.

But in his long-earned arrogance, he refused to take his Viagra and while still quite viral, his flag couldn’t be fully raised on our Oscar Iwo Jima.

So we soldiered on…

Well, I can’t speak for Big Daddy Clint, but sign me up for those stuffed mushroom caps, though I will pass on the virus (P.S. Note to Big Daddy: get well soon!)

Our look up The Queen’s knickers started taking on more significance than it seemed to have early on. And Jack Nicholson through cocaine all over Hollywood’s writhing behind.

I don’t know about you, but I almost “through” up when I looked up the queen’s knickers…(Too easy? Okay, I won’t touch Hollywood’s “writhing behind”. But again, the man makes a living as a writer)

All that dating… all that rubbing… and it turned out everyone should have just stayed home and gotten off on the expected, not very challenging, too easy solution to their Oscar needs.

And even then, it just keeps going on, an entire industry desperate for some lube.

That’s just about the most revolting thing I’ve ever read. So, thanks to David Poland, I am never having sex again. But at least there’s still David Lynch and his pet cow, keeping the Oscar season real…

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