So, Transformers: Age of Extinction came out last week.
I saw it opening night in GXL 3D (whatever that means). I refrained from expressing any opinion for or against it. Not because I was incapable, but rather that I hadn’t exactly pieced together my thoughts into a cohesive stance. Well…a friend of mine forced my hand when he posted a link on my Facebook to an io9 article dubbed: “Transformers: Age of Extinction: The Spoiler FAQ”. It was basically a rundown for the entire plot of the movie, and a well done one at that. I could find no fault in the logic posed about the movie’s illogic.
In the byline of the posted link, this friend wrote: “Is it really this bad?”
I sat on a reply for a couple of days…and now I have the perfect reply. In the form of an analogy.
Let’s say – for the sake of roleplay – that you’re a college-aged male. (Yes, ladies, you too. Play along.) You’re on your way to a frat party. You don’t usually go to these kinds of things. Heck, you’ve only been to three you can remember. The first was a lot of fun, if stupid. The second one was a disaster. (Somehow, you woke up hungover under a pair of giant wrecking balls.)
And the third was fun…if bizarre. You’re not sure if it was the shrooms you ingested – or something else – but you could’ve sworn Buzz Aldrin was at the party.
And Leonard Nimoy. Weird night.
This time, you mean to keep your wits about you – no matter what hits you. And the moment you walk through the gate, something does – a flaming stick. You recoil in pain, your eyebrows are now singed, and you’re lying flat on your back. As your vision returns, a strikingly attractive woman is standing over you.
She’s adorned in a miniskirt patterned after the American flag.
Her hair is all a-tussle in that hot pornstar sorta way, and by the way she’s wobbling, you can tell she’s a few mixed drinks in. In both of her hands, flaming batons. She’s fire dancing…while drunk.
“Duuuude, I’mma soooo so-*hick*orry,” she says, seemingly genuinely embarrassed.
You reassure her that you’re fine as you stand back up. When upright, you feel for your face. Everything is still there, eyebrows included. Aside from a pain behind your eyes, you’ll live.
She introduces herself as “Transforma” (her dad is, like, soooo Greek), and she insists on “buying” you a drink. Even though you know that all the alcohol is free at the party, you play along. At the very least she’ll be able to cut in line and expedite the process.
Transforma comes back mere moments later with a Red Bull Vodka (more vodka than Red Bull), then proceeds to talk your ear off for the next hour. Aside from the fact that she’s slurring her words, running-on her sentences a little too long, and repeating herself, you’re strangely captivated. That is, beyond the whole “drunk hot girl” thing, although that doesn’t hurt.
Another fifteen minutes or so in, and she’s standing closer to you. Her voice – almost a whisper. Is she trying to kiss me? you wonder, er…okay.
When you pucker up, it is at that moment she chooses to vomit all over your pants and shoes.
“Ooooohmigawwww,” she says, “I c’nt b’lieve tha’ jus’ happened!”
She sounds like she’s about to cry. You strip out of your pants and shoes right that second, give her a reassuring pat on back. In return, she grabs you in an embrace, and whisper-gurgles, “Can you take me home?”
All judgment thrown out the proverbial window, you agree to.
Both you and her walk to your car. You toss your vomit-laden clothes in your trunk (vowing to deal with it tomorrow), and proceed to start the car. It doesn’t oblige. Transforma insists that you pop the hood, and – by some form of drunken voodoo – rigs something to something and…vroooom!
On the way back to her place, she has the genius idea to stop for Chinese food. You oblige the request. As you continue driving, she has another bright idea – stopping at a lookout ridge. Again, you agree. Is this going where you think it is going?
You find a nice place to park overlooking the night sky. The food has helped sober up her speech a little, and she gives you a better idea of who she is. Her major is Paleontology, and she’s a “fire sign”. She never says which one, but you’re not surprised.
After finishing your mutual meals, she offers to show you some of her “work”. Apparently, she’s writing a dissertation on – of all things – robotic dinosaurs. She even shows you diagrams – surprisingly detailed ones.
But then you wonder aloud, “What do robot dinosaurs have to do with paleontology?”
“Oh, nothing,” she dismisses, “I just think they’re f**king sweet.”
And you can’t fault her logic. Robot dinosaurs are f**king sweet.
At around the two-hour-thirty-minute-mark, you realize this quasi-drunken date-thing isn’t going anywhere, and you remind her that you agreed to take her home. Before you start the car, though, she puts her hand on your leg.
“Are you sure there isn’t…something else we can talk about?” Her hand starts probing up your skivvied thigh. Eventually, fingers touch…uh…something private. Well, private to everyone but you.
You would protest…but you can’t. She – quite literally – has you by the balls. Once again, you acquiesce to her idea. But once her head lowers…you hear it…
And leftover Chinese food sprays all over your lap.
You start the car.
Neither of you speak to each other for the remaining twenty-minute drive. She’s making sniffling noises in between hiccups. You would reassure her (again), but there’s half-digested Kung Pow chicken fermenting in your lap.
You arrive at her dorm building. She hesitates a moment, then says, “For what it’s worth, it was nice meeting you.” And then she hands you her business card. It has a baby robot dinosaur on it. It’s pretty f**king sweet.
She leans in to kiss you, but you say, “That’s quite alright,” and give her a hug instead.
Trasnforma stumbles her way back to her building, but pauses just long enough to turn around and wave good-bye.
You drive home and start to ponder.
That was one of the worst almost-dates you’ve ever been on, but it wasn’t the worst. That honor belongs to that one time you went out with a woman that looked like Bruce Willis. (Who names their daughter “Hudson Hawk”, anyway?”)
You can’t say you had an entirely bad time. Granted, she did hit you with a flaming baton…but it was almost a meet-cute. Sure, she vomited on your pants…but it was almost a kiss. And, yes, she did vomit again in your lap…but it was almost a blowjob.
As you get out of the car in your sorority-girl-soiled underwear, you’ve decided. Yes, you will give her a call. You would gladly see her again…at least one or two more times. It may almost kill you, but at least you’ll have a story to tell. Or write.
On the Internet.
In FAQ form.
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