Everyone's Gone to the Movies: Black Snake Moan (2007)

I try to be a good man. Honest, I do. But like most men, I know what it is to be led astray and have my very soul dominated by the little slice of heaven that lives betwixt a woman's sticks. As you move down a girl's belly and up her thigh, you'll more often than not know that you're on the road to personal damnation. And once you know that, you're almost guaranteed to have a good time. I'm pretty sure I read that in the bible once.

Now, if I've learned anything at all in my advanced years, it's that being a good man is highly overrated and that it's always easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Brothers and sisters, I'm here to tell you that the very concept of redemption is predicated on the idea that you can have your cake and eat it, too. Because you're my friends, I'm here to tell you that you can enjoy the pleasures of the flesh and still enter the Kingdom of Heaven, if'n that's your thing. And don't let another soul try to tell you different, folks. If I'm not mistaken, and I ain't, the bible also says that the Lord's going smite a motherfucker for being a smartass about such matters.

In a roundabout way, that brings me to Christina Ricci, who's always given me a deep throb in the underoos. She sends the very same thrill up my leg that Barack Obama sent up Chris Matthews'. The difference is that I'm not going to be as coy about it as ol' Christopher. When I say "leg", I really mean "cock." I just wanted to avoid any confusion about that. The stiffness in my legs is a result of my being asshole deep in middle age, whereas the iron in my Johnson is all for Christina.

As you good people probably already know, I don't have a "type" of woman because I love 'em all. But Miss Ricci is about as close to the ideal as I'm likely to find. She's about two feet tall and 36 pounds, soaking wet, which would be exactly the state that I'd be fixin' keep her in. She's got dark purty hair, giant eyes and a tiny lil' ass that speaks to me in a secret language that only I can understand. She's so goddamned cute that I'm willing to overlook the fact that she's had breast reduction surgery, a medical procedure I find toxic and unforgivable in any other woman. I'm guessing Jesus feels the same way. I also reckon that He'd want to wear Christina like a wristwatch, just as I do. Turns out that Jesus and I have a lot in common.

From everything I've heard, Black Snake Moan (which premiered on my 37th birthday) is far and away the best film in little Miss Christina's canon, and I've been fixing to see it for some time now. The only problem has been that I'm very lazy. Why, as recently as five AM this morning, I resolved that I'd never again view a film that didn't feature Sophie Dee. But my wang got sore by noon, so I relented and played the bitTorrent of Black Snake Moan that I downloaded a few months ago. Because I've been several flavors of unproductive lately, I decided that I'd write about the movie as I watched it.

That was probably a mistake. Ricci spends the first third of the movie wearing nothing more than a Confederate belly shirt and tiny white panties which outlines her beautiful little box wonderfully. About 40 minutes into the picture, a forty pound chain around her waist is added to the ensemble. As much as I'd like to avoid discouraging every woman I know from dressing the same way, it isn't doing my inflamed pecker any favors. In retrospect, watching seven Sophie Dee movies in a row here in the masturbatorium this morning probably wasn't wise. Live and learn. My constant Twitter flirtations with the unbearably hawt Joan Crawford throughout this experiment aren't helping my groin any, either.

The film centers around Rae, played by Ricci, a white trash Tennessee nymphomaniac, which the available science tells me is a serious medical condition that more women should suffer from. Rae responds to Justin Timberlake being deployed to Iraq by being stuffed with all the booze, drugs and cock she can find, which seems perfectly reasonable to me. But she coughs a lot, so Timberlake's hillbilly best friend beats the shit out of Rae and dumps her on the side of the road to die, just as you'd expect from someone who hangs with Timerlake.

She's found by the great Samuel L. Jackson's character, Lazarus, a former Delta blues singer whose enthusiasm for Jesus and sharecropping prompts his wife to fuck his brother. As is often the case with Jackson's characters, Lazarus don't cotton well to that, and middling pool hall violence ensues. However, his preacher assures Lazarus that attacking his kin with a broken liquor bottle is cool with God. I'm just shocked that Lazarus had to inquire about it in the first fucking place.

Rae is delirious, unconscious and, most remarkably, still horny when Lazarus brings her back to the crib. Lazarus, being something of an pious and annoying blowhard, refuses to fuck her, which is where the giant chain comes in, and goes a long way in explaining why I abandoned religion when I was twelve.

See that? Pretty high on the list of the sexiest fucking things you've ever seen, right? You or I would see that in our yard and our penises would tear through our pants and begin beating us about the head and shoulders, whistling "Dixie" while it did it. Not ol' Lazarus, though. Like his namesake, he's dead, but only from the waist down. This is perhaps the strongest evidence yet seen that Christ makes you gay, the entire Catholic Church notwithstanding. No right-thinking heterosexualist can resist a chained girl with a teensy butt and a propensity for showing some underboob. It just isn't done in straight circles.

Rae reacts to this rejection pretty much the way you would expect any clinically slutty Southerner to: by taking a thirteen year old black kid from behind, which Lazarus breaks up because Lazarus hates everyone.

Timberlake, having been kicked out of Iraq for being a pussy, returns home to find Rae gone. When his shit-kicker buddy tells Justin that he fucked her, Justin whips his ass, which must comfort al-Qaeda in Iraq greatly.

Back at Casa Lazarus, he and Rae start drinking moonshine, as one does, and he frees her from her chains. Instead of pounding her in the dumper, which I would have done, Lazarus tells Rae about his wife's sluttery and enthusiasm for Mississippi abortions while playing a beautiful cherry Gibson ES-335. Rae responds by hallucinating and putting her head in Lazarus' lap, further proving that gay dudes have all the luck.

Things go downhill from there. Secrets are shared and pretty much everyone exposes themselves as irredeemable pussies. Worse, there's an adorable little nymphomaniac in the middle of the mess, and no one even so much thinks about fucking her. If there's a real tragedy in Black Snake Moan, that's it. Also, I can tell you from some experience that most nymphos don't look like Christina Ricci, which compounds the tragedy of the film.  There's nothing sadder than seeing a smoking little nymphomaniac that spends the better part of two hours not getting fucked, and I can assure that doesn't happen in Sophie Dee's fine films.

I think I made a terrible, terrible mistake today.

Actually,  that's not true. I'm just being bitchy because I'm still awesomely horny, even after a morning of brutal jerking off that has left me swollen, sore and dejected. The always heroic Kevin Smith called Black Smith Moan "the most beautiful love story" he'd ever seen and "the best movie of 2007." Not having seen any other movies from '07 that I remember, I'm inclined to agree.

But it is a pretty good flick, and I suggest that you all check it out. Craig Brewer makes a pretty good movie. I'm just sad that Christina Ricci wasn't naked a lot more in it.

Now I have to go pound my pud again. I'm just .... heroic that way.

I'm coming, Sophie!