Preparations For The Next Wipe
Decent pun...#LishGang
Yo I just thought of something. Simply by #dint of being a longtime Regal Unlimited patron (4 years and counting), I realized that, in effect, I’ve already paid to see Wuthering Heights. It’s kind of a Schrödinger’s Box for Warner Bros; I’ve both seen and not seen Emerald Fennell’s latest horned-up sensory overload. To that end, I’ve made my decision.
I’ve decided to go see ‘Wuthering Heights.’
The marketing for this movie has promised us that, rest assured, this movie will be horny.
I can’t wait to what viscous, creamy fluids Fennell has injected all over her precious film this time. I have been promised copious amounts of oozing, things bursting at the seams, various meniscii forming as a liquid, via surface tension, reaches its upper limit—and there better be discharge.
In preparation, though, I must take defensive measures. Such a horny film requires that I be vigilant, lest I soil my Gap ‘90s Loose Fit jeans and make a fool of myself in the reclining seats. Here’s how I’ll be preparing myself to see this, apparently, soft-core porno in theaters this weekend. I advise you all to do the same.
First, I’ll be fortifying my pants stack.
What I’ve decided for this outing: I will wear the skinniest jeans possible, but underneath, the loosest boxers one can buy.
This combo will feel incredible. The rough interplay between superfluous cloth and unyielding denim will produce a friction the likes of which my poor thighs have never felt before. It will distract me. This way, I’m assuming, I will feel free and unencumbered at the base layer, but ensconced by a sheer, impenetrable fortress to the outside elements. This combination, I hope, will protect me, should something unfortunate happen in the course of watching Margot Robbie jam her fingers in an enriched dough.
Next, I’ll avoid eye contact with any women 24 hours both before and after the film.
Ramadan is on the horizon, and this will be just the practice I need to get my mind right. For years, I was taught to “lower my gaze.” I was built for this. Emerald Fennell can play all her dirty little games, but I’ve got my eye on the ball. I refuse to be titillated. I will not fall prey to her sordid sexual machinery!
A day or two later, I’ll send an email to Warner Bros. detailing where I’m at, hormone-wise.
During the runtime, I’ll be wearing by Whoop! fitness tracker, to track—among other things—my elevated heart rate, hormone levels, cortisol spikes, and general oxygen blood flow. I’ll keep a detailed log of my physiological responses to Fennell’s shocking, transgressive imagery, like a dangling bead of spit or a finger inside of a fish’s mouth. Especially that last one. I’ve literally never even imagined a finger could go inside of a fish, let alone its mouth. The deviant who can conjure such images in their mind must be, at the very least, a nasty little freak. Imagine that. Finger in fish.
Anyway, this email will provide all of my sensitive personal information. It will signal to them that, yes, the film elicited the physical reactions they desired—a nut, a scream, an immediate sob—but I have ample #receipts, as the kids say, to fight them in court. If something happens where someone makes fun of me in the theaters—like, let’s imagine, a group of teens record my visceral shudders and moans (which can be quite jarring, I’ll admit), and then let’s say they post it IG Reels and cook my ass, labeling me #TheWutheringNutter, and then proceed to dismantle my personal life brick by brick—if that happens, I will be very litigious.
Warner Bros. and Emerald? Fennell? Those screams you heard in the theater? Yeah. That won’t be the last of me you hear. It’ll be. It’ll be your screams. You’ll be the ones screaming. And it won’t be from pleasure. Like mine were. Mine were—yeah, they were of a different kind, I guess. But they won’t be the last ones. That you experience—not hear, but experience. Because you’ll be doing the screaming. Because of my lawsuit.
See you at the damn movies.
Ritam’s Footnote
Wuther the wuther be heights, or wuther the wuther be nut…