In which Jason and comedy writer Ben Arnold discuss the trailer for the movie Perfect Sense.
J: The good news is, Ewan McGregor and Eva Green fall in love. The bad news is, the world is ending. There’s a virus that’s robbing people of their senses, starting with smell. Although I guess this means that Oscar the Grouch is finally going to get to have sex. I hope he gets to have sex with Ewan McGregor, come to think of it. Ewan McGregor will be all, “Listen, Eva Green— I know you’re a beautiful woman, and our love transcends the apocalypse, but now that I no longer possess the senses to determine if this grouchy puppet who lives in a trashcan stinks or not, I am really going to lay into him with my penis.” That’s what people who have sex usually say, right? “I’m going to lay into you with my penis.”
B: Yes, that’s correct, Jason. “I’m going to lay into you with my penis,” is the accepted nomenclature of our people here on Planet Sesame Street. Also, “I’m fittin’ to drop some dick science into your fart tube, Elmo” works equally well. Now, as for the people in this movie Perfect Sense, their love making seems to be preceded by a conspiracy theory-induced apocalypse. Not unlike my love life. I too like to pretend/believe that the Illuminati is poisoning my brain with chemtrails and other unseen chicanery before asking, “May I take off your pants, please? It’s urgent because at any moment, ‘they’ might detonate the nano-bomb in my nutsack.” When she says “no,” that’s when I pretend/believe that the nano-bomb indeed is exploded, causing me to fall to the floor clutching my genitals and whining, “Aaaargh!! Look what you made ‘them’ do!!” But alas, all is not lost. At least not according to this trailer.
J: You know who else has a nano-bomb in their nutsack? The Jason Bourne of squirrels. He has a tiny messenger bag filled with acorns, nuts and a nano-bomb. Also, like most squirrels with squirrel-sized messenger bags, he has a miniature copy of Little Women. And the latest issue of bitch magazine. I once dated a girl who subscribed to bitch magazine. She got mad at me for taking a photo of myself with her Polaroid camera and asked me why I wanted to kiss so much. I bet that little squirrel with the nano-bomb is a passionate kisser. Oh, have I been saying nano-bomb this whole time? I meant iPod nano.
Anyway, you know what else makes perfect sense? Making tender love to Ewan McGregor on your last day on this planet, apparently.
B: All I have to say is, you could do a lot worse. Imagine all of this horrible stuff going down in real life and it just so happens that you’re in the middle of a rebound relationship. A fling. A six-week joyride, at best. And perhaps it’s with someone who looks more like Ewan Dobson than Ewan McGregor. Sure, he’s everyone’s favorite Canadian fingerstyle guitarist, but when it comes to grinding out some hardcore, end-of-the-world, bonded-in-death-and-eternity copulation, he’s just kind of like, “I don’t know. Things are moving kinda fast, eh?” Kind of like your bitch friend, Jason! If the two of you were in this movie, I imagine her saying something like, “Oh look. It’s the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse stampeding through our bedroom. Could you hurry up and get that Durex on?”
J: I appreciate that you assumed I consummated my relationship with this girl, but anyone who works that hard to keep our kissing to a minimum is not going to give me the keys to her maidenhead. And by maidenhead, I mean the wooden lady at the front of most 19th century ships. Which is where most hip twenty-something girls keep their valuables these days. Oh, has anyone seen my Tie-Neck Sweater Dress? Never mind, I found it. It was locked beneath the bared wooden breasts of the mermaid on the deck of the Snow Squall.
B: Well, that really does make Perfect Sense, Jason. Which reminds me: oddly enough, I was thinking about filming a movie of my own about a budding romance cast in the midst of the end of the world. Except my film was going to be called Perfect Cents, and it would be about the most parsimonious prostitute on the planet who, despite it being the Final Judgement and all, refuses to sleep with what is certain to be her very last “john” ever until he can come up with the exact price in dollars and cents for her services. Here’s a sample from the opening scene of my current script:
Prostitute: “This is only $84.43. I need $15.57 more, you cheap bastard.”
John: “Are you crazy? We’re all about to die and you’re nickel and diming me?”
Prostitute: “I don’t give a shit. I’ve got costs to cover.”
John: “What costs?! Where are you going to spend this money, anyway!? At Zombie WalMart???”
Prostitute: “That’s none of your goddamn bizness, dude. Now go find yourself $15.57 or go jerk off in a bomb shelter.”
John: “Okay, fine. Just wait right here. I’ll be back.”