Rolling into my local AMC at 11:40am on a Friday to catch the matinee showing of “Magic Mike”, an epic tale of male strippers in Tampa, Florida, I couldn’t help but catch the eye of the ticket vendor when I uttered, “One for Magic Mike, please.” Grey windpants, a muscle tee from the local lesbian nightclub, and a full head of bieberish hair had to confuse the shit out of her. Was this some sort of local conversion program to try to get lesbians to go straight? If that was the point of “Magic Mike”, it missed the mark. I’m gayer than I’ve ever been, readers, and the only thing this piece of cinema taught me? That I would rather die than date a straight girl.
I could bore you with a synopsis, but I can sum it up in one phrase: Mike has stripper depression and finds the cure in a sad sack of a straight girl. Yes, there’s an epic amount of junk shots. Yes, Matthew McConaughey looks airbrushed and all of the party shots looks like the director got carried away with his Instagram filters and tried to bring them to the big screen. A drug deal gone wrong, a young buck rising in the ranks, random pairs of tits flopping through the air… “Magic Mike” has all of these crucial components. What makes this movie so different?! Cue Channing Tatum: Magic Mike…the star stripper/entrepreneur whose dream job is to make customized, one-of-a-kind furniture from scrap metal if he could only GET A LOAN! But alas, his credit score is lower than his number of sexual partners, and no bank will bite. What I love about Channing Tatum is his white trash appeal. I just want to buy him some linen pants and bring him to a crouquet tournament where he won’t fit in. He’s the kind of guy who could get away with not knowing what aioli is at a brunch and I’d still fuck him, ya know? Anyways, he has what I have dubbed “stripper depression.” Its common among really attractive people who have many talents but just can’t find what they are looking for even though everyone loves to see them naked. I suffer from it occasionally myself, but Mike just can’t shake the feeling that there is something more…*cue violins made out of G strings*.
As Mike mopes about, he meets his sausage swinging protege’s sister, Brooke… and this bitch ruins the fucking name. Like I said, this sad sack of a woman demonstrates every attribute that should NOT be appealing in a mate. She has a mediocre job with no ambition, trashy blond highlights, and does not smile in the movie until an hour and 17 minutes in. I timed it. She just twiggily slinks about the screen, with zero boobs, zero ass, and zero personality, while always donning some sort of shirt made out of sweatpant material and drinking tea. Why does Mike fall for her? Because she’s not like the other girls. She puts him down right to his face about his profession. Oh yea, and she shits on his dreams. What a fucking gem. If this is what men are looking for, I will stick with women.
I don’t want to ruin it for you, but Brooke finally asks Mike out during the last 30 seconds of the movie, right after Mike storms out of the strip club and drives to her place crying as “Doctor Love” blasts in the background. No fucking joke. And then, because her favorite breakfast nook isn’t open until 6am and it’s still the evening, Brooke propositions Mike. The last line of the movie, from the woman he actually likes and wants to date and not just fuck, is, “What could we do for 7 hours?” And then they start making out. I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO MARRY THIS GIRL, MIKE?! She’s using you for your body, you fool.
“Magic Mike” was tolerable for the first 15 minutes, painful for the next 60, and suicidal for the last 35. I get it, straight girls, you love a good set of hamstrings on a man and a piece of man meat that can gyrate on you for days. But that’s just not my thing. I, personally, would like to open a lesbian strip club for ladies like me… ladies who like butch girls. Picture it: a butch girl (preferably a former softball player) saunters on stage and does a casual two step while dressed in cargo pants and a t-shirt. She slowly unbuttons the cargo pants as the femmes in the audience scream and she drops her pants to reveal: cargo shorts. “Yea, show me your calves!” one bachelorette howls. The champagne room is renamed the Miller Lite room, and instead of the butch girl dancing on you, you guys cuddle and pick out a puppy. As you find the perfect golden retriever, the butch stripper leans in and whispers, “I bought us matching toothbrushes, girl.” I don’t know if my dream of a strip club like this will ever come true, but I’m a bit of an “entramanure” like Magic Mike, so if anyone is interested in investing, let me know. U-haul business in the area will skyrocket with a club like this, so I think we should just have the U-haul rental office in the club. In fact, just take the money you were going to use to see this movie, and invest it in my idea. Or better yet, take me out for a drink. I need one after that shitstorm of a film.