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    Sex Tape? More Like Just Tape.

    S1 Fiona Pondreczek

    This week I treated myself to an advanced screening of "Sex Tape." And I'm not going to comment on the acting, the production value, or whether or not I thought it was funny. I just want to focus on the fact that this movie is called "Sex Tape," and yet there is no actual hardcore sex.

    None.

    In fact, they don't show a single shot of Jason Segel's beanbags swinging from his pork sword. And if, like me, you enter the theater expecting to see Cameron Diaz writhing on a slam mat with Jason Segel's dangler riding shotgun, you will be sorely disappointed. You will also leave the theater wondering why no one has called you in 27 years.  

    Yes, technically this movie is about a sex tape but the fact that there was zero pudding packing, finger-dusting, OR tomato crushing upset me to the point where I sat through most of the film with my head in my lap, staring at my own vagina. And that's not something I usually do, unless I'm very depressed. In fact, it hasn't happened since I saw "The Green Mile" and there wasn't one green mile in it.

    And there were so many missed opportunities!  Right when you thought Jason Segel's flesh pointer would start pecking away at Cameron's juice cave, they'd stop and talk about something that had nothing to do with sex!  Take the moment when Cameron and Jason were sitting at that coffee table, upon realizing they'd made a dire mistake. Could one of them maybe, just MAYBE, have popped a squat on it and let their Egyptian tunnel rain a can of cumin-soaked beans, as the other, positioned beneath the glass, pummeled their Chicken a la King with the force of an angry bull who is also a telemarketer with his year-end employee evaluation happening in less than an hour? Would that have been too much to ask for?! I guess so.

    There's even a shot where the two of them wake up surrounded by toys they've just used to squash each other's flesh hornets. There were spatulas, tennis balls—and even lube!  The mere thought of Cameron slathering it across her beef canvas really got me going. But did they divulge the seed of my innermost fantasies? NO. Instead of plowing that tender landfill, we just watched a stupid bar on their iPad sync it to all their contacts, or some dumb sh*t.

    Halfway through the film I started thinking about the fifteen dollars I'd slapped down on the counter, wondering when in hell Cameron would flash her buttery mollusk so that Jason could enter it like a hog in a bathtub. There weren't even any felching three-eyed dogs, if you know what I'm saying. And, at this point, I think you do.

    At one point, even the mailman claims to have seen Cameron's sweaty turkey and it doesn't even lead to us seeing his chubby eraser. Not even a glimpse. At this point, I wondered if they were saving hardcore penetration for the end, or if I'd be better off going home and pausing my favorite scene from "Brown Bunny."

    I left the theater feeling so dissatisfied, it took me fifteen minutes of sitting on the regency-style movie theater carpet, eating Milk Duds and snapping photos of passersby just to feel like myself again.

    In the end, I give it two chocolate starfish. Because that's what it needs.

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