So I finally got around to watching Brokebutt Mounting, er, no… Pokebutt Mountain… wait, that’s still not right… was it Bareback Mountain? Um, no. Let me think… Brokeback Mountain, maybe? Yeah, that’s it, it was Brokeback Mountain. I watched Brokeback Mountain, the cinematic sensation of 2006, a touching, tragic drama about faggot cowboys in love and the horrors of heterosexual marriage.
I was expecting a strong dose of homosexual propaganda, and in that respect, Pokebutt didn’t disappoint. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was how monumentally boring this movie was. It was about two hours long but felt like four. At 45 minutes, I was already drumming my fingers, wondering when it was going to end so I could go do something more exciting, like trim my toenails or roll those pennies I’ve been accumulating in a jar for the last decade. Even the soporific The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford wasn’t as mindnumbingly dull as this.
Ignoring the propaganda aspect and judging the movie solely on artistic merit, Brokebutt Mounting did not deserve the hype that surrounded it. Sure, the photography was nice, but the acting was stagy and there wasn’t enough of a story to fill two hours. And as beautiful as the natural scenery was, it didn’t make up for the distasteful subject matter. If this movie hadn’t been serving a role in Hollywood’s long-running campaign to normalize and promote homosexuality, it would’ve toured the arthouse circuit, picked up a few awards from queer film festivals, developed a minor cult following within the lavender set, and then it would’ve vanished into obscurity, never attaining the status of household word that it did.
It was notable how little homoeroticism there was on the screen; we get to see the tits of two of the actresses, but all of that sizzling man-on-man action must have ended up on the cutting room floor. That’s because the whole thing would’ve fallen apart and turned into a ludicrous farce that no one could take seriously if they had shown what it was that those “gay” cowboys were actually doing up in those mountains. The audience would’ve been left scratching its head, wondering what was so great about having one’s rectum torn that a man would ruin his entire life for it. It would have come off as sleazy, pathetic, and pathological (which, of course, it is).
A salient feature of the “gay rights” movement is that it never discusses what it is that fags actually do in the bedroom; in other words, it never mentions the defining feature of homosexuality. This is conspicuously omitted from its PR materials because it knows that normal people would be disgusted by these activities and wouldn’t be able to take its political demands seriously. The “civil rights” movement might’ve had some semblance of legitimacy since blacks are, after all, born that way and can’t help the color of their skin; but no one in his right mind is going to assent to granting special rights and privileges to a bunch of hedonistic fudgepackers, grown men with shitty tongues who desire to spend their lives ejaculating down each other’s gullets. I mean, what next — zoophiles demanding the “right” to marry sheep?
One of the cornhole cowboys was named Ennis. Ennis rhymes with penis, and the way his Texan bumbuddy pronounced it, it sounded like he was calling him “anus.” Ennis, penis, anus — was this some sort of inside joke or subliminal message, or just a happy, but random, coincidence?
In the end, Pennis’s bitch Jack, who was a little less bashful about his perversion, gets his head bashed in with a tire iron by a posse of vicious, knuckle-dragging rednecks (are there any other kind?). Despite the fact that Jack was obviously murdered, there is no criminal investigation, the death being filed as accidental, because, you see, for decades The Patriarchy has been covertly perpetrating what amounts to a slow Holocaust against queers by turning a blind eye to fag-bashing. All breeders are in on this conspiracy, including the Sheriff’s office. You could fill a football field with the piled corpses of the victims of homophobia. Jack’s demise was tragic, truly tragic — I lost count of how many tissues I used to sop up my tears — though to let reality intrude for a moment, one might consider that statistically, the odds would’ve been far greater of Jack dying from AIDS than at the hands of heartless hillbillies.