When Steven Seagal goes on an airplane and is given his free sack of nuts, do you think the stronger urge is to kick them across the plane, smash them in his bare hands, or deep-fry them? That question came to me last night after writing about Steven Seagal’s love of homoerotic ball-smashing. I’d just gotten out of the shower, so I imagine the sight of my own balls in the mirror filled me with a Seagal-like urge to kick the offending junk, rather than the usual futile attempts at autofellatio.
If you want to blame something for this post, then blame Den of Geek.
As I was writing about the death of satire and how David Arquette killed it (at least in America, and probably with a Seagal-like flurry of kicks to), I got to think. What was the best piece of satire I’d seen recently? Well, it just so happens it was Steven Seagal’s Mountain Dew commercial. A quick YouTube search revealed the video that set me off on a pun spree the likes of which may never been seen since years of Seagal scrotum smashings have undoubtedly left me sterile.
I think I’ve figured it out, and I’m kicking myself (in the dick, of course) for having not figured it out before now. Steven Seagal is a self-hating feminist. Why else would he revel in the mashing of man-marbles? He secretly wants to be a woman. Think about it: long hair; breathy whisper; love of silky, flowing garments not appropriate on men; full, supple breasts… the only thing that stops him from getting the snip and fold is the fact that he’d no longer be able to get off on paying a woman to perform fetishistic acts of genital torture on him.
Man, I am obtuse sometimes. All the signs have been there for 20 years, and I’m just now putting together the pieces. It’s sad, really.
Author’s Note: are these references to genital torture and autofellatio too disturbing for you, my faithful readers? Fear not, as I don’t try to have my own mouth babies, nor do I look at myself naked in the mirror after showering. My body is far too shameful and disgusting for that sort of deviant display. If I want to see that sort of thing, I’ll watch Animal Planet during Gorilla Festival ‘98.
Author’s Note 2: If you actually wanted to see that sort of thing, please keep it to yourself. I’m trying to run a classy operation here. I don’t want my highbrow discussion of the lesser works of Sir Steven Seagal, OBE, to be discussed amongst such lowbrow topics. Now back to watching a fat guy feasting upon the tenderloin area of his enemies with swift (yet dainty) kicks.