I never really felt much empathy for Jimmy Kimmel when it was reported that Matt Damon was procreating with his girlfriend. But as TV becomes reality, I now understand how foolish it is to assume that the Kid-Hair-Cut Matt Damon is anything less than Demonish.
Matt Damon is sticking his tongue in my girlfriend’s ear too. And it’s apparently been going on for years.
Maybe it’s all those emotionally distant, tough guy roles Matt-Attack played that formed the underpinnings for the sexual escapades he and my girlfriend have been sharing. Perhaps, it’s the shiny-object theory of female DNA, the twisting of chromosomes somewhere during the cave man era that made women love things that stand out, be they hair or club or man. Or, at the brass tacks level, maybe the fact remains that were it not for sex, men and women would have killed themselves off millions of years ago and evolution keeps us “doing it.”
Whatever the cause, Mattish seems to have tapped into this phenomenon with astounding accuracy.
I never really suspected anything in the early years. Our first date movie was carefully picked out to keep her thinking “when can I get out of here and get naked…I am so bored”. And so I picked a golf movie for our first date.
The Legend of Bagger Vance isn’t anything one would consider an arousing moving. I was always told not even Freudian slips could penetrate the sheer boredom of spending the day frollicking around the grass holding a stick and moving balls around, wildly performing acrobatic acts in order to make it to the hole.
But as I look back at it, the first time we had sex was a three-way. And apparently I was the un-aware boyfriend Kimmel was. Matt Demon had found his way into the back of my pick-up truck on that fateful night. I should have known he was there when she screamed…
“Come on Junuh! Make the shot!”
I just figured she was drunk.
Over the years, our love life has been filled with Matt-isms that never really made any sense until the devil of retrospect became my companion.
There was that screening of the movie Oceans 11 followed by a night in Vegas where she kept on and on about how I was so “sleuthish” to have used magic dice to get 7’s on the craps table. I never made it away from the slot machine the entire night but I figured whatever worked for her when it came to foreplay, I’m game.
And then….only a month after watching Bourne Identity, there was that crazy European trip she booked. It took all I could do to prevent her from attempting to turn my expired US passport into something highly suspect. It wasn’t so much as the name she chose, “Mikael Namastrata” from “Russia” that had me worried. Nor was it the fact she spray painted the passport red and the pages were stuck together with seepage from the Elmer’s Glue canister.
It was her insistence we keep an airport locker full of pictures from my childhood to “remind me.”
What was worse, one half of the trip she spent trying to pick fights with strangers so I could “re-remember” my fighting skills. Luckily, the other half was spent naked in various alleyways, whispering that “she understood I needed do things differently to avoid a pattern.” I thought she just wanted to mix it up a bit.
But as the years went on and as Matty Boy continued to produce more movies, the pattern became too much to overlook. If it wasn’t her insatiable desire to hide in the backyard and pounce on me while yelling “Fix me Good Shepherd! I am your baaadddd sheep!”, it was her silly attempt to throw mirrors at me from the roof of the house while shouting “You cannot steal my youth Mr. Grimm!”.
At some point I had to confront her.
“I’m not Matt Damon. I am Russ, your boyfriend.”
“Honey, you are so funny. I know that you silly goose…now would you please shut up and handcuff me to the bed for helping the police?”
As I think about it now, even as I type this, I don’t reckon there’s anything wrong with having Matt Damon around the house. I just hope he continues to stay away from the dorky roles Ben Affleck plays. Suicide would be imminent if I was treated like that.