Normally, I pride myself on being a manly man.  That
means, if you cross me or look at me funny, I’ll come at you like a fucking
nightmare.  All you’ll see are blinding movements consisting of blurry
fists and swollen knuckles.  I’m so manly I crap out mallets and piss
lava.  My nutsack is layered in Kevlar and naugahyde.  Testosterone
boils in my massive balls.  And chunks of Angus beef sweat from my large,
manly pores.  The only time I bleed is when I want to bleed, like when I’m
donating blood.  And even then, there needs to be a needle strong enough
to pierce through my leathery skin.

But sometimes I cry during movies.


Crying is strange.  Sometimes crying is rational (like
whenever a loved one dies or whenever Snooki from JerseyShore gets punched in the
face) and other times crying is irrational.  For instance, I
once got choked up while observing an adorable Boston Terrier as it licked
himself in the park.  Why?  I have no idea.  Maybe because the
li’l guy reminded me of my own lack of physical agility.  In the hour and
a half that I creepily stared at the dog from behind the bushes, I realized
that I would never, ever be able to lick my own genitals, no matter how many
yoga or Pilates classes I enrolled in.

Yeah, sometimes crying is irrational.



If you are worried about crying during a movie and/or if there is absolutely no
hope of getting laid by showing your emotions to someone you are interested in,
here are some ways of disguising your tears of shame while in a darkened
theater:



For reasons that go above and beyond my limited knowledge, quite often when I
yawn (like when I am tired or when somebody is talking to me), tears well up in
my eyes.  I’m guessing this is due to a tumor.  Also, I frequently
hallucinate.  I’m chalking that one up to the tumor too.



Anyway, whenever I feel a “cry” comin’ on, I typically over-exaggerate
a yawn (by making that yawn “noise” by widening my supple mouth and
moaning/groaning loudly while stretching out my arms).  This tactic works
two-fold in movie theaters.  For one thing, it communicates to everyone
around me that the film I am watching is boring and unemotional enough to
warrant a yawn and also, it communicates that I am not crying; I am just wiping
“yawn-tears” from my tired, equally supple eyes.



Another tactic I occasionally employ (especially if I cannot properly pull off
the yawn-defensive), is the “hold my breath and use mind powers”
trick.  This involves voluntarily cutting off my air supply (not the band,
the oxygen) while concentrating with all my might on not breaking out in a river
of hot, sweet tears.  Usually, in hushed tones, I’ll repeat to myself over
and over again, “Don’t cry motherfucker.  Don’t cry.”



Sometimes I try not to close my eyes.  In fact, I make them grow
wider.  If you widen your eyes enough, and are sitting underneath an air
conditioner or behind a flatulent man, then more wind and/or oxygen can engulf
the surface of your eyeballs, thus drying them out.  It’s simple
physics.  Unfortunately, if this ceases to work, I have discovered that
bringing attention to yourself will actually cause people to not look at you.



Try screaming something like “Shitballs!” or “My
testicles!” during an emotional onscreen moment and sit back in confidence
knowing that people will be too shocked and/or terrified to look your
way.  In relation to this, if you really want to freak them out or piss
them off, just start laughing.  Laugh your fucking ass off.  Really
go at it.  Maybe slap your knee a couple of times.  Let out a fart or
two, you know, improvise.  Make it your own, I don’t have this shit
patented or anything.  And all those tears running down your face? 
That shit’s not from the raw, powerful scenes onscreen; it’s from laughing so
goddamn hard!  People will think you’re
crazier than a bowl of piss!



Anyway, here are three films where none of these tactics worked and I was
unable to prevent the tears from flowing:



Recently, I wept during Disney/Pixar’s Up.  I caught the film
during one of my Gentleman Jack/Flaming Hot Cheeto binges, wherein I babbled
like a simpering moron into my half-empty Titanium flask of whiskey. 
Within the first dialogue-free ten minutes, UP expertly conveys joy and
heartbreak, as well as the excitement of dreams and the crushing lows of unfulfilled
hopes.  By the end of the wordless montage, I found myself touched like I
have never been touched before, unless you count that one afternoon I spent
with a Thai rent-boy.  Man, that brings back memories…

Like Forrest Gump…a film that has always reminded of that really
popular guy in high school that got all the chicks, went to all the parties and
who banged my ex that one day while I was running around the track to make up
for the fact that I never got dressed for P.E. class.  You know the type of guy.  He was the type who had no redeeming
qualities; he looked like Willie Nelson on a bad day, he had the personality of
an unsalted peanut, and he was dumber than a sack of dicks.  Yet, despite all these strikes against him,
he still got all the chicks, went to all the parties and banged my ex while I
sweated my ass off around that goddamn racetrack.

Yeah, I never understood the appeal of Forrest Gump.

Actually, now that I think about it, I was initially attracted to Forrest
Gump
because it tells the tale of a retard with a hilarious haircut.  And
these two things are pretty much my weakness.  Retards and bad
haircuts.  Put those two elements together and I’m all yours.  That
shit’s like Spanish Fly to me.

I have to admit, when the annoying girl in the movie decides to do drugs,
become a hippie, then die of AIDS, I got a tad misty-eyed.  And you know
what else got my tear-ducts dribbling?  The fact that Forrest Gump tells us that brain damaged simpletons
can coast through life, seemingly unaware of their experiences and adventures,
while independent thinkers die in slow, painful ways and will eventually give
birth to a child who, in the future, will grow up seeing dead people.

Schindler’s List also made me break down.  Yep, the waterworks
went off like the faulty genitals of an incontinent old man during that one. 
Granted, any movie that combines stark, black and white imagery with the holocaust
as the subject matter is going to be a gloomy affair, but Schindler’s List
thankfully alternates between the horrific and the uplifting.  However, I did feel guilty shoving fistfuls
of popcorn in my mouth while also nibbling on a stale hotdog as Jews were
enthusiastically being gunned down and butchered onscreen.  Thanks Mr.
Spielberg!  While much of the film is sad and depressing; the ending is
what sent my unfettered eyes into a Niagara Falls-type abyss.

You know the ending, right?  When The
Schindler Jews pay their respects at Oskar Schindler’s grave?  Man oh man, after seeing the fictional
portrayals of real-life people contrasted with the actual survivors, I just
lost it.

And you know what?  That’s okay.  ‘Cause sometimes manly men gotta cry.

Even me.



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