Posts Tagged ‘Job Satisfaction (Lack Thereof)’

Inside Deep Throat

April 23, 2010

I’ve seen neither ‘Deep Throat’ nor ‘Inside Deep Throat’. Here’s my review of the latter:

No longer humphappy, in Calcutta, with a basket of bhajis, and your mother’s admonitions thumping in your ear canals like barges laden with bad breath (how your mother would barrellise the Guinness from breakfast-time till church till she roared black liquid like an Irish storm-drain, and you were breached by the cannonballs of halitosis from the pickled onion jar), you tip the urchins a winking rupee and the holymen in nappies too. You came here seeking some straightening, a quick clean-up job in the godbasket of the world. But all you’ve got for your trouble is Delhi Welly (fill your boots with yesterday’s birijani) and the ventriloquisms of your old lush of a mother that somehow snuck through customs, despite her bear-like dimensions. Old Ma Lovelace – for all of her massive malodorous moralising, the old dame was right when she told you that video-cameras are evil.

‘Inside Deep Throat’ is the sequel to your first film ‘Deep Throat’ in which multitudes of mackintoshes queued up down the block – lank shanks of pervmeat skewered together on the sidewalk by the shish of their common pathology – yea, queued up and down the block for a glimpse of your lymphoid tissue. In which a fat, hairy rotter danced like a camel before dropping his heavy trip on you (a Hindenberg of horrors). ‘Inside Deep Throat’ tells the story of your first film ‘Deep Throat’ and lays bare the nastiness like an x-ray of Satan’s y-fronts.

As I watched this film it dawned on me that I have been working as a celibate under-paid porn star for the last two years. The catalogue of required postures and facial expressions, the daily submission, the over-familiarity of colleagues, the blank eyeballs working up a wood of sorts as they suck down the sad spectacle of my degradation – I too have been banged between bad folk like a bent stick of swingball, and for minimal remuneration. I’m going to go to the subcontinent to shrive my soul. I’m going to walk the path of Linda Lovelace. Old Ma Lovelace is breathing badly in my ears: ‘Make a documentary’ she says, ‘make a documentary and rip Pharoah a new one.’