On occasion, I’m overly drawn into a program on “Lifetime,” a woman’s entertainment channel. And by “overly drawn into,” I obviously mean that the remote is missing, I’m too lazy to move, and watch whatever is on; even if it’s the Lifetime channel.
Yesterday evening was one such occasion. I happened to chance upon a most ‘B’ of B-movies, whose name I’ve already forgotten; or probably never knew in the first place. It was such an experience that I must share its wonderful story with you. Enjoy! (Suckers).
This story is about a young couple who’re madly in love—and sexually hyperactive—a detail that’ll play an important role in the story’s progression. Besides, it’s some unwritten rule somewhere that no-name actors and actresses must show a lot of skin, or they don’t stand a chance. Anyway, all is well initially as the guy who’s a PhD in astrophysics (and this has no bearing on the story whatsoever) and the woman who’s a children’s book author—and relatively cute, by B-movie standards—go about their wonderful life.
But one day—cue ominous tune—it all starts going horribly wrong.
It turns out that this young woman has some seriously terminal illness, like lung cancer or something, and about a quarter way through the movie, is very ill, and is soon doing gross things like coughing up fake blood. Since I doubt that few people would want to sleep with someone who’s throwing up blood (other than the odd lazy vampire, I guess), their sex life begins to suffer.
But our poor man has needs. Of course he does. So he soon begins cheating on this wife with this other B-movie-league-attractive woman who happens to be a real-estate agent. The side perk of this being, that they then get to copulate in all different sorts of bedrooms in fancy homes she’s supposed to be selling! Meanwhile, the poor, sick wife (who’s still hot in a sort of, “you can get to be totally protective of her, and she’ll be all yours,” way) joins a support group.
A support group for people who also cough-up blood while waiting for other people to die, so that they can hopefully get the lung transplant they need to live. Yes, your typical fun-times crowd.
Riveting stuff, if any of these people could act. You’d think they’d have just ended this train-wreck right there with a message like, I don’t know, “smoking kills” or something. At least the kiddies would have learnt something.
But noooo, our writers have other plans.
The plot thickens
As sick as she is—gross blood-spewing and everything—the wife is still remarkably perceptive; so she soon finds out that he’s cheating on her. And by “remarkably perceptive,” I mean that she’s not blind, and happened to see him ogling over the other chick in public at some point. She’s understandably distraught and soon becomes suicidal.
Yes, she’s suicidal. And you would feel sorry for her, if, you know, she could act. But a brief recollection of her sexually-hyperactive past with this man clears her head. She begins to see why he had no choice but to fuck another, and so she lets him off the hook to do whatever. As in “she wants him to be happy,” or something.
If that weren’t creepy enough, she soon wants to join the fun. (Not literally of course, because she can barely breathe, and isn’t nimble enough to be of any fun.) She begins to hide and observe them make love; I guess vicariously having sex with her husband as he’s screwing the real estate agent.
By this point you’re like, “Surely this must be the end. I mean, how much more downhill could they possibly go from here?” And before you can finish that thought, you realise how shockingly wrong you are as the next “twist” presents itself. Our little astrophysics friend wasn’t cheating on her with any somewhat-hot real-estate agent. Oh no. He’d carefully picked a kind and generous chick who’d (as clearly stated on her driver’s license) agreed to have her insides donated for the good of others when she passes.
Yep. Attractive. Organ-harvestable upon death. Dying wife needing organ?
(I still want you to act surprised when I reveal the ending.)
Long story short, at about three-fourths through the movie, he uses his PhD genius (like his amazing ability to modify sound files on a computer. Huh?) to kill this other woman. Not just have her die anywhere, but conveniently, as they were procreating at a home specifically picked for its proximity to the hospital where is wife (now too sick to even hide in the closet and observe the fun) is dying.
Genius, I tell you. Genius!
Briefly. Something bad happens, real-estate agent almost dead, ends up at the hospital near his wife, dies, doctors put 2 and 2 together, rip her lungs out and drop it in the wife, and voilá! Wifey is soon back and capable of satiating him. And if it weren’t for the thick 14″-long scar running across her breasts, you’d never know anything was ever wrong with her.
OK, any somewhat rational-minded person would have ended this god-damned 4-hour-long weep-fest right about now. I mean, this is a pretty acceptable—even if evil—ending, isn’t it?
But noo, there’s even more.
The fizzled conclusion
By now, you’re actually beginning to have thoughts along the lines of, “Women’s entertainment? Just what sort of woman is this supposed to be entertaining? Can it even be classified as entertainment at all? Who gets paid to make this crap? Do people get paid to make this crap?” You know, that sort of thing. But you brave on; because the evasive remote is still missing.
If you’d expected that the wife’d be entirely indebted to him (and end up some sort of weird subservient slave) because he:
- found a woman with a compatible lung who was willing to donate it when she died,
- killed aforementioned woman conveniently close to his wife, and
- made sure her organ was transplanted to his wife, saving her life,
you’d be wrong.
I mean, come on. If someone went through all that trouble for me, the least I could do is satiate them sexually. But not this wife, no. She’s still harping on the one tiny detail; that he slept with the other woman (for her no less; and what of all those times she got off observing them hidden in the closet?). She resents him entirely. But she’s all operational now (as in can breathe without that huge oxygen-tank-mask-contraption thing), and has needs too. So what does she do? She runs-off and begins to sleep with random men as she’s travelling—to promote her children’s books, which have now magically become a success! (You know the writers are doing their best to get her to strip, god-awful scar and all).
By now, you’ve lost way more hours that you’ll never ever get back than you can count. And you go, “Screw the remote!!,” as you begin to flail your arms and kick your extended legs hoping you’ll knock the TV off its stand, saving you from further agony.
So the tale ends there, abrupt as it is, because that’s as much as I could take. No, I don’t need to go to the store to buy a new TV; it turns out I was sitting on the remote all along.