Before there was Fifty Shades of Grey, there was The Bridges of Madison County.
It's been awhile since Hollywood released a granny panty-moistener starring Clint Eastwood, Sean Connery, Harrison Ford, Richard Gere, or any of those other pace-maker heartthrobs who were totally repulsive when I was 17, but who now (in their mid-1990's iterations at least), seem vaguely attractive. Like yeah, I could maaaaaaybe see tapping that under the right circumstances now, but talk to me in 10 years and I'm def DTF those silver foxes.
Anyhoo, we could all use a distraction from the rapid unraveling of our democratic norms at the tiny hands of Our Sentient Cheeto Overlord, so I went back and watched Clint Eastwood get rained on while weeping and posting up a 120-minute long geezer-boner for Meryl Streep on cable.
To achieve full Trump Distraction Zen--or TDZ, as I call it--I tried to put the two A-listers' real-life political differences out of my mind: How Clint talked to an empty chair pretending it was Obama one time, and gave an interview to Esquire in which he called everyone who thinks women and minorities should have basic shit part of "the pussy generation;" or how Meryl made a dramatic speech about what an obvious asshole Vladimir Cheetos is at some awards show and it was a huge deal on the internet for two minutes.
Instead, I chose to focus on their loooooove. Their nauseating, clandestine four-day fuck-athon in which they eat some Italian food prepared by Meryl and take walks around her farm and roll around in the literal hay.
Clint is on assignment for National Geographic to shoot pics of some boring-ass bridges, and Meryl's husband and teenage kids are conveniently away at the state fair earning a blue ribbon for their pig or a giant kolrabi or something. Clint comes to the farm looking for directions to (what else) a bridge, and somehow we're supposed to believe that this is the set-up for love at first sight.
All I know is that at one point, Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood end up in a tin bathtub sponging each other down with washcloths, which is clearly the inspiration for that Cialis commercial with the two people in a field in the two separate bathtubs.
Now let's take a quick timeout for an indignant outrage break to see who I've offended so far: civil engineers who love covered bridges; the mayor of Madison County, Iowa; people with geezer-boners and pace makers; people on Cialis; and peri-meopausal women who reach for a tube of KY at the first thought of riding Clint Eastwood's gray jock in a tin bathtub.
See? Now you don't need to message me and tell me that COVERED BRIDGES ARE VERY IMPORTANT and YOU TOO WILL NEED KY VERY SOON! I know all of this, and I can't wait for every last one of my pubes to fall out.
True story. Trust.
I'm simply doing a basic public service here. I'm here to tell you that there is actually something more nauseating on television than Trump, Inc., and it's The Bridges of Madison County.
As SCROTUS would say, enjoy!