Prostesting Too Much

Allow Dish to put on her shrink cap. The mind of Mel Gibson fascinates me. Take Braveheart. The long tousled hair, the skirts, the makeup, the orgasmic violence. Sex with two deserving, wholesome women--but hidden in the middle of the woods. William really wanted to fight with his porky ginger boys as the girly son of King Longshanks gets thrown out for being such a limpwrist. In his personal life, Mel keeps getting that wife pregnant, proving his sperm is as vital as his box-office testosterone. Put him in manly movies, estrogen comedies and he delivers.

Chaos ensues, Mel gets older, photographed drinking with the skankiest, wet-T-shirt bunnies he could find. The booze makes the Sugar Tit Jews Taking Over the World Nightmares go away.

The Passion of the Christ: If he loves Jesus, he can't be gay. Except Jesus had passion, all right, as his muscles bunched from those beatings, blood rushing through those pulsing veins, his face twisted in erotic agony. Apocalypto: a band of men in loin clothes kill a tapir and make fun of one of the warriors, making him eat the testicles. Hmmmmm. When you begin with a man eating animal balls, isn't something wrong? There are fabulous ass shots, a constant in this Mayan epic. A few years later, Mel leaves his wife, impregnating another woman. Trying so hard. There's only one diagnosis, ladies. I sort of feel bad for him. Until I think of Sugar Tits.

This will probably get me killed. Bear in mind, I love Mel in anything except the films he directs. I'll even watch What Women Want--especially love when he puts on hose and waxes his legs, but in a manly way.