Bully for Brosnan

Bully for Brozzy!

by Paul Cooney

PART I

10% of men are gay. 100% of men are gay for Pierce Brosnan. Why is that? Have you seen his fucking face, Mr. Curious? Jesus Christ talk about obvious. The man is gorgeous with a capital erection, and every film that doesn't have his visage winking throughout is weakened exponentially. Think for a moment: if you were finally exposed and imprisoned for even one of your limitless misdeeds (and you know what they are you cretin!) and thrown into jail, if your cellmate rolled over and revealed himself to be Pierce, would you not sigh and feel your nervous tummy flutter with happiness? And then would you not use your one phone call to contact your lawyer and tell him to plead guilty and ask for extra jail time? Why you'd probably strip out of your jailhouse jumpsuit so fast you'd pull a muscle in your zeal to be pierced by Pierce, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Let's all muse on that for a moment. There you are in your cell with your prison-issued pants around your ankles and that hot Irish breath on the back of your neck, but by gum you're quite happy! (A proviso: this series should be read with pants down, for safety reasons of course. NO EXCEPTIONS.)

Well now enough of your tawdry musings, let's skip the nocturnal batter and get to the matter at hand, namely Mr. Brosnan's incredible body...of work. OMG you perv you keep going there! Brozzy has been breathtakingly seducing young and old since exploding onto the scene in the The Long Good Friday, playing an Irish Republican Army hustler and all around taskmaster. It's a delicious perf, featuring a shirtless Brosnan and a sauna where he uses his expertly toned abs to lure a randy brit to a bathhouse shiiving. Is that a recipe for scintillation? I'll let you do the math, and by math I mean tend to your erection.

Back? Well that was cleary going to be the apex of his or anybody else's career, but Piercy Poo kept on making flix, cuz when you are that beautiful society practically demands you spend your life in front of a camera. Errol Flynn knew it, Vanity knew it, and Pierce knows it.

After giving Europe the slip, Brozzo came to the USA and dicked around on TV, starring as Remington Steele, a character who inspired steel hard hard-ons across the continent. (Yes, Mexicans and Canadians were tenting their ponchos and parkas watching him too!) Brozzy's gorgeousity respects no borders! You will be penetrated by his magnificence no matter what god forsaken part of the globe you struggle upon.

Speaking of penetration, let's insert ourselves into the magical world of Brosnan and his chest hair by first looking at The Matador. I know what you're thinking, I hope this film isn't about literal matadors, but instead depicts Pierce taking on the spirit of a bull and charging at ladies wearing red satin capes. You couldn't have been more wrong! Pierce doesn't play a matador - which he totally could mind you cuz his acting range is only surpassed by his beauty, which has no limit - but instead our man Brosnan plays an assassin named Julian, and he exposes his chest hair almost immediately. It's a shrewd move by the director, who realizes that any sophisticated theater-goer is going to be antsy in his/her pantsies in anticipation of gazing upon that lush chesticle mane Pierce possesses, thus by revealing it and getting it out of the way early allows the viewer to relax and bask in the glow of Brozzy's visage. OMG he's so pretty!!!

I have a soft spot for hit men in general cuz I know we can all think of a person or two or twenty-two we wouldn't mind seeing shot, so when you add in a sweet mustache and a saucy personality we might have one of the all-time screen heroes in our midsts. Pierce is sitting on a park bench waiting for the car bomb he set to explode when some wiener kid approaches and obliterates his serenity with some of the yappity yap children are notorious for. Broz tries to give the brat the blow off but he's a persistent little fuck and finally reveals that his wannabe milf mom's sent him over to chat Pierce up, saying she thinks he's cute. Brosnan, who's bedded more women than you've taken breaths, looks over at her for an instant and then informs the pint sized matchmaker that he would only be interested in her if she "lost 20 pounds and 30 years".

That's a fucking zinger in every country and I've taken the opportunity to use it liberally on each side of the equator, which hasn't endeared me to certain 40 year old mamasitas in Argentina I can tell you now. Clearly Broz knows what's up, whether he's murdering his fellow man or dashing the hopes of past their prime broads, he's a man of action we can all root for.

Just when I'm basking in the twin killing, Broz advances his charm offensive further by ogling a group of school girls. It's a winning move and I've replicated it to great success on countless occassions. No crime in looking, or so my attorney tells me, and what young lady doesn't appreciate the attentions of a man with sinister facial hair and a fine pair of shades? None I've ever encountered!

I digress. Seymour shows up and scolds Brozzy when he perceives the perversity our hero revels in. "Isn't she a tad pubescent, even for you?"

Didn't Jesus say something about judging? Let the man enjoy his hobby, you spoilsport! Broz doesn't allow this intrusion to ruin his fun and gives those ninas the thrill of a lifetime til they rush off in a flutter of giggles and moist pantaloons. He then laments their upbringing, "I hate these Catholic countries, all blushy blushy, no suckee fuckee."

A lot of wisdom behind that mustache! Think of all the misery the Catholic church has wrought on the world with their backward nonsense: the Inquisition, worldwide child rape, urns. About the only thing they've done right is promote the proliferation of the plaid skirt, and yet we're not supposed to stare at them even when they are purposefully rolled up so they're much shorter than Oleg Cassini intended? I won't mildly acquiesce in the face of that injustice and so I admire as a form of protest. Am I right? I said, am I right??

Where was I? Oh god speaking of stains on humanity, Greg Kinnear. When poor Brozzy forgets his own birthday, realizes he has no friends, and unsuccessfully looks for joy and succor in a sex club he is reduced to chatting up Kinnear in a hotel bar. Pierce breaks the ice with a delicious margaritas and cock joke that I highly encourage one and all to use on their next visit to Chili's. Kinnear is a boring dildo in town for one of those "job" things I hear people going on about from time to time, and although repulsed by Brozzy's penchant for offensive banter, can't resist sticking around to hear gems like, "I've never had my blood pressure taken and wouldn't know how to get a mortgage for all the teenage twat in Thailand."

That's some fine alliteration right there and Pierce keeps it up by referring to his own calling as a hit man as a "facilitator of fatalities." Kinnear can't resist tagging along and we're treated to a delightful behind-the-scenes lesson of how an assassin operates. Sure looks fun to me! Why my guidance counselor never couseled me about the joys of murder I'll never know, but come to think of it she was likely a pederast. I digress. Kinnear is repulsed by the actual killing aspect of killing and Pierce bids him adieu: "Just think of me as the best cocktail party story you ever met."

Greg goes back to Denver, not into the arms of an Indonesian beatnik half his age as a certain viewer was hoping, but instead into the generic embrace of average white lady. It's a ho hum existence and Kinnear grows a mustache in a desperate attempt to hold onto some of the verve Broz brought into his life. Meanwhile our hero Pierce is jetsetting around the world - Vienna, Moscow, Budapest - assigned to assassinate the odious across Europe, but sadly finds himself losing his touch! Wasn't it heartbreaking to see the former titan broken and cold, standing in the snow and forlornly watching ballerinas flit about through a frosted window? Seymour shows up to tell him he's marked for death and he'd better shape up or amscray, while Pierce ponders the lack of a retirement plan for assassins.

"Wasted days picking up illiterate teenagers for suck and fuck sessions behind the Old Navy?" Sounds better than shuffleboard and 401K's to me, but then again I've always taken Robert Frost's words to heart, romantic that I am.

Pierce blows into Denver during a blizzard and shocks Kinnear and his wife with tales of his life on the line and his snazzy leather jacket. The Christmas tree is lit and Sinatra is on the hifi and pecan pie is served with whiskey, Bushmills though which is wack. I'm a little disappointed Broz didn't insist on Jameson's like a true patriot. However it's a charming scene worth checking out, even just to hear Broz gush about his new retirement plan, "I've enough money to retire to a beautiful little Greek island filled with beautiful little Greeks."

That does sound like a sweet way to end things! I could go for some yogut and ouzo served by some tawny chick named Jocasta while gazing at a limitless blue sea...

Lamentably the ending of the flick gets a little far fetched and I don't care for it so I'll choose intstead to hail the glorious power that is produced when you combine Brosnan's mustache with amoral panache.

BROZZY RATINGS

The Movie: 8

Brozzy chesticle exposure: 9

Brozzy mustache in full rakish flower: 10

Morals! Overrated, no? We can bicker and argue over what laws should be obeyed and which should be flouted with impunity, but let's all agree that attractive people should be allowed to do whatever the hell they want. Don't their good looks connote a superiority that should be both venerated and indulged? If Brosnan does it, is it not legal? As my attorney argued when I was tried on trumped up peeping charges, how could someone so handsome be wrong? Not guilty!

I'll let philosophers ponder that while you ponder the fact that Ireland's parliament recently passed legislation prohibiting Brosnan from getting married, sensibly arguing that his beauty should not belong to one woman, but to all humankind. Amazingly none of the preceding is true, but Brosnan is so delovely you actually believed it for a second did you not? Admit it!

When contemplating Brosnan's allure I encourage you to think of his generosity as well, for instead of using his looks as I would if I possessed them (contracting syphillis while leading a dissolute yet enjoyable existence amidst a bevy of tawny ladies of dubious virtue in some sun soaked land), Broz insists on working, the pretty idiot. Now of course he's not toiling away in some diamond mine, nor is he perusing porn on the company dime in a soul destroying cubicle somewhere, but it's not like he's living a life of ease churning out a succession of masterpieces in wondrous locales, is he? For a handsome and talented fellow, he sure appears in a lot of shit! For example: did you know that Pierce Brosnan, Hollywood superstar, made a movie called Detonator? Even more incredible, did you know they somehow made a Detonator 2? Either Pierce loves acting more than life itself or hates his children so much he looks for any excuse to flee from their would be embrace.

Detonator is based on a book by Alistair MacLean (no relation to John McLane who saved everyone's ass in Die Hards 1 thru 4), and if you're wondering why the Detonator series only goes up to 2, which rhymes with poo, look no further than this quote:

Compared to other thriller writers of the time, such as Ian Fleming, MacLean's books are exceptional in one way at least: they have an absence of sex and most are short on romance because MacLean thought that such diversions merely serve to slow down the action.

Now we know why Mrs. MacLean was always looking for some side action. Zing! Suck it Alistair! Imma come at you all day you old Scottish fogey. Who don't like fucking? No one that's who. Who don't like reading about fucking? Your moms maybe. Scrooge MacDuck was stingy with the do re mi, and old Alistair is stingy with the fuckee suckee, which is why he ain't never gonna be as popular as Ian Fleming, who was an asshole incidentally....but I digress.

Detonator's plot hinges on some nonsense about a nuke on a train. It's a delicious Die Hard rip off, and lord knows Bruce Willis would have happily traded the life of his ex-wife if he could have even half the follicles gracing Brosnan's chest on his own chrome head. Do you doubt the prowess of Brosnan's chest? If so, Brosnan wastes no time dispelling those doubts, exposing his luscious chesticles five minutes in, practically forcing you to revel in his pecs. Once the audience is panting and ogling with glee, the director further ramps up Broz's already stratospheric sex appeal by having him ride a motorcyle. Holy gonads, Batman! Is there a reproductive system in the world that could resist that onslaught of smoldering fuckitude?

Let's all cool down for a second and discuss cinema shall we? I know I wondered why the director would choose to play two such devastatingly sexy cards early on - why not save something for the halfway point?? Has he not heard of foreplay, the scumbag?? Just as I'm wondering that, I realize that these scenes are taking place in Kentucky, where Brosnan is bizarrely being forced to reside. Gross. Where did my erection go?

I refuse to even contemplate a backwards crudhole like KY further and so I'll turn my attention to the stellar cast, comprised of Captain Picard, Christopher Lee and American Flyers' own Alexandra Paul. Broz is informed that for his next mission he'll be teaming up with a chick from Baywatch who was never defiled by Scott Baio nor any member of Motley Crue and sneers, "She's too good looking to be anything more than window dressing." Hypocrite! Does the man not own a mirror??

Back to the movie. Mercenaries based out of Miami are behind this no-goodnik nukes on train business, and they're headed by none other than Ted Levine! He was my favorite character in the grossly overvenerated Heat, which is full of nonsensical nonsense, and whose epic shootout makes not a lick of sense and is grossly inconsistent! Also the voodoo guy from Major League dies and we all acknowledge Bob Deniro is a big time joke now right?

While we're on the subjects of mercs in Miami, let's talk of something that makes me happy: Tom Berenger in The Substitute. Holy shit if ever a perfect movie was made that was it. The man waxes nostalgic about "homeboys in Nam," saves a school from punk gangsters and kills Marc Anthony. Is that not the trifecta of awesomeness? Whenever someone tries to impress me with some boasting about their accomplishments or acquittals I'll counter with, "Did you have homeboys in Nam? Have you murdered Marc Anthony? You really ain't done shit then have you?" It's a nice way to cut braggarts down to size and I humbly offer it to you free of charge.

Where was I? Omg Detonator...the screenwriter has it in for Italians and they come in for some heavy handed insults. I'm guessing he wrote this beaut after a bad meal at the Olive Garden. Did he get cheated out of a breadstick?

Spoiler alert: Brozzy foils the nuke plot and saves the day, while also learning to respect Alexandra Paul, which naturally I found to be the most implausible part of the forgettable film which I've clearly forgotten a lot about.

BROZZY RATINGS

The Movie: 6

Brosnan Chesticle Hair Exposure: 9

Brozzy cycle riding: 10

Detonator deuce! The title evokes thoughts of battles with the toilet, battles Pierce wins no doubt, every time! I wonder if even his bowels are handsome. Are his intestines in fact lined with velvet? It's possible! I'm not a scientist but I'm a fan of both fabric and the digestive tract, so I like to think that when a man like Brosnan detonates his waste, he gives his feces an elegant trip down the poop chute before expelling it into our oceans for fish the world over to enjoy.

"Hey! That's a rather attractive turd don't you think?"

"Glug glug glug."

(The preceding was a conversation I imagine fish having when they loiter around a sewage pipe on the outskirts of Brosnan's south Irish estate.)

After watching the original and still the worst Detonator, I was apprehensive about delving into Detonator 2: Detonate Harder, but then I remembered our boys stormed the beach at Normandy lo those many years ago just so I could have the privilege of frittering my existence away watching girls in plaid skirts and B-movie trash. Thanks guys! (The Russians would have beaten the Germans anyway so your efforts were largely in vain but that's another subject.)

Brosnan ups the ante in the sequel by sporting a sweet ass mustache and audiences across the globe moisten their undergarments in anticipation of seduction. Alexandra Paul is back as well, attempting to counter Pierce's appeal with a short hairdo and even shorter skirts. I'll commend her effort cuz I'm a gentleman, but let's be really real and concede that it's a futile gesture worthy of pity in lieu of leers.

As if Brosnan's beauty wasn't breathtaking enough, the plot of this delight involves art! Someone's faking Rembrandts and Brosnan, feeling a kinship to gorgeousness us mortals can only pretend to comprehend, has never been more interested in cracking a case. This emergency calls for a mullet and Broz sports a sweet Martin Riggs-esque special and, hello what's this? Chest hair! We are not denied!

Is it too soon to ask Santa to bring me Detonators 3, 4 and 5? Just as I'm pondering a future filled with Brosnan playing a character even more suave and debonair than Bond, he sullies the screen wearing some denim monstrosity that not even Jason Statham could pull off. I'm heartbroken and ready to declare fashion dead when strangely it's left to Paul to carry the burden of being chic and she more than delivers, blasting her nips all over Amsterdam. What she lacks in cup size she makes up for in areola. A real go getter!

Style always comes at a price however, and though always a classy and sophisticated addition to any wardrobe, nipples poking through the shirt are an aerodynamic drag, and when she subsequently attempts to chase down crooks on her bicycle she doesn't exactly speed down the dykes! The baddies look likely to escape via a canal, but through an unfortunate turn of events they crash into an unmanned dingy which promptly explodes.

I'm ready to call bullshit, but the dastardly director distracts me by showcasing a shirtless Brosnan soon thereafter. Once I recover from my chesticle hair induced haze I see the flick has transplatned itself to Hong Kong, and I'm shocked to realize this film actually had a decent budget. Is it possible this trash is somehow profitable? Is Brosnan forgoing a salary as long as the producers promise they will showcase both his chest hair and mustache? I'll allow it.

My surprise continues when I'm treated to a surprisingly good chase scene that culminates in a phone booth death. Remember phone booths? The obsolecense of the phone booth is a blow to cinema, for they make fine places to kill people on screen. And what would the career of lesser Irish heartthrob Colin Farrell be without the booth? Though I rebuke myself for even mentioning that nothing in a paean to Brosnan. It's like pretending JC Chasez was ever even in the same realm as Timberlake. You were along for the ridem, Chasez!! Don't even text JT anymore! You're not worth his time!!

That being said, I do urge one and all to check out Chasez bravura perf as Pontius Pilate in Jesus Christ Superstar. Jesus Christ the man can act!

Where was I? Oh shitsnax Detonator 2. The detonating gets harder indeed as Brosnan punches an old man, attempts to defuse a Wile E. Coyote Acme-style dynamite bomb and North Koreans show up. In an aside, let me call attention to most fetching uniforms worn by the flight attendants of Korean Air. The light blue is alluring and those little flying scarf thingies around their throats are charming. Do they practically force a passenger to give them a tug or two? My attorney says yes and I'm not one to argue with him!

Spoiler alert! Brosnan and Paul save the day, blowing up a missle and avoiding incineration. Just as I'm digesting that implausible crud, I'm shocked to see the flick take a sickening turn - is this a budding romance between Pierce and Paul I'm witnessing? I refuse to acknowledge a world in which such a crime could happen and I abandon the movie before the credits roll in protest. What could be uglier than Brozzy lowering himself and loving a woman who is unworthy of his ardor? Did someone say Ron Silver?

BROZZY RATINGS

The Movie: 6

Brozzy chesticle exposure: 9

Mustache and mullet combo special: 9

Nipple explosion: 9.5

I know what you're thinking: in the midst of a series celebrating Pierce Brosnan, a flick entitled Live Wire must be a documentary about Brozzy's cock, the livest of wires and the purest form of electricity in the whole universe! Who wouldn't peruse a 2 hour fact-based tour de force exploring the majesty (and rumored healing powers) of Brosnan's penis? Philistines maybe. Those who hate art and hard ons perhaps. Whatever the case may be, lamentably Live Wire is not a paean to Brosnan's dong but rather a ludicrous film that is short on Pierce's dingle but long on Ron Silver's nose. Bait and switch! Imma call my attorney, I feel like I'm a victim of fraud.

This early-90's flick opens with a bit of text informing the audience that while most of the world suffers from terrorism, the USA has been safe. Ouch. I guess this was before the rest of the world figured out they hated our freedom. If only we had heeded the prophetic warning Brosnan gave us. It's as if he knew the terrorists would be so jealous of his handsomeness they would lash out at the west. Am I alone in being grateful that they left Pierce's face unsullied? That reminds me - it's high time I made my pilgrimage to Brosnan's hometown and bathed in the sacred waters of his childhood bathtub. The one true Mecca!

Back to the movie! A senator is killed and there is much rejoicing. I suppose now is a good time to lament one of the great tragedies of psycho killers: their choice of victims is ludicrous! If they were sane they could put their will to kill to much better use, and instead of slaughtering innocents they could murder senators or pop stars. Of course if they were sane they likely would no longer have the desire to kill. It's a cruel irony and I just hope the folks at Apple one day come up with an app that, while not encouraging mass killings, could gently persuade a nutjob who was about to go bananas to steer his rage in such a way that after his spree was over a lot of folks would mutter,"Well the people he did kill kinda had it coming." Siri, get on that shit!

Where was I? Ooo things are heating up and we are treated to a delicious scene in which Brosnan has to diffuse a bomb nestled saucily betwixt some chick's legs. This lucky dame sits in her sports car and peers down at Pierce. If her heart wasn't already racing with the knowledge that an explosive device has been placed precariously close to her ass, the sight of Brosnan so close to her holiest of holies is sure to send it aflutter! I don't know who has the better view, this sugar baby gazing down, or Pierce looking up to see she's going commando. Focus on the bomb, Brozzy! Of course an experienced poon hound like our man Brosnan keeps his cool and lets neither the bomb nor his wad explode. He renders the device inert and then offers the skirt some advice, "Quit cheating on your husband and put on some underwear."

Wtf? That advice sucks and I'm wondering if Pierce has been replaced by an imposter Brosnan. Why would he tell her to do something that seemingly makes so little sense? Why would he tell her to put on panties? Dare I contemplate the horror that she has out of control pubic hair? Split ends where her split begins? Imma check the dvd extras to find out...hello what's this? No extras??? It's almost as if this straight-to-dvd piece of garbage is without an audience!

As I ponder Brosnan's antipathy towards going commando, he dispels my doubts about his judgement by exposing his chest hair. It's his ace in the hole and he plays it well. How can I stay mad at him when his chesticles are in full bloom? Maybe this director isn't such a hack after all...omg...what the fuck is that? There is an old woman on screen and she appears to have some sort of antagonistic relationship with Pierce. I'm assuming that's his mother when - dear god - that chick is supposed to be his ex-wife?? He married someone over 30???

Why would he do that? Am I to assume that he is so handsome that he abandoned the idea of ever finding a mate who could equal his beauty and thus settled on a broad with a talent for cooking hash browns?

My theory of Brozzy being a depressed loner, cursed by his good looks and resigned to a life of loneliness is buttressed when I see security guards mocking him for being a cuckold. Jiminey H. Crickets this is taking things a bit too fucking far! While I can suspend disbelief enough to entertain the ludicrous idea that Brosnan would marry a woman his own age (ridiculous) who is plain at best (unthinkable), I find it unfathomable that this same chick would somehow jeopardize that miracle by cheating on him. It's like calling Santa a cocksucker to his face after he gives you that Barbie dream house you've been dreaming about all year. It makes no sense!

Hold on a second! I'm an optimist after all. Dare I even dream a little dream that the reason this nothing would dare cheat on Pierce is that she's a world class hypnotist who, in addition to mesmerizing a god like Brosnan, has also beguiled still another superhunk named Jason Statham?? Oh here comes her new beau now - could it be the star of Death Race? The hero of the Transporter films? The man from Crank? But no...it's Ron Silver. Excuse me while I bury every copy of this movie deep in the bowels of Bullshit Mountain where it belongs. There has never been a woman in the history of the universe who would leave Pierce Brosnan for Ron Silver. Ron Silver's own mother would have pulled him from her teet and smothered him if Pierce had so much as winked at her and asked her to make him some chicken pot pie. And it's not like this actress is Raquel Welch or Vanity. Maybe if she was a bombshell super knockout I could conceive of her ditching Brozzy to dedicate her life to her breasts or coke habit, but even then I would never buy them shacking up with a repulsive troll like the odious Ron Silver. I mean in real life the best a broad like the chick in this movie could hope for is to marry a manager at Buca di Beppo. Yet in the ludicrous world of this ridiculous film, this nothing married the dreamiest of dreamboats, Pierce Brosnan himself, and then was so dissatisfied with his handsomeness and prowess in the bedroom (assumed), that she found one of the ugliest men who have ever stained the earth with their hideousness, Ron Silver, made sure he was an amoral asshole (which he was) and then got boned by him. Honk my hooter I'm just glad Ron Silver's dead enough not to be able to read these insults.

Perhaps I'm being too hard on Ron. Maybe he's not so gross after all...hello what's this? He's wearing one of those blue oxfords with the white collar. As many of my fans already know, I consider fashion crimes to be the greatest crimes of all. That's what really killed Whitney Houston you know - the lack of quality design!!! You go on believeing Michael Jackson died of a drug overdose, I know it was because 7th avenue hasn't a clue what to do with velvet. How 'bout some innovation with fabric before we lose yet another star you monsters!

Back to the movie! While I'm still distracted by the idea that any woman anywhere would cheat on Brosnan with Ron Silver I'm inundated with water bombs. Apparently the no goodniks in this flick have developed a way to weaponize water, and I wonder if I can ever drink a Dasani in peace again. The explosions start coming aplenty: first a senator combusts and then a judge is blown to smithereens, yet the most menacing and sinister thing in the picture remains Ron Silver's haircut.

Just when I'm hoping they blow up the Supercuts where Ron gets his mane shorn at I'm blasted with this beaut of a dis:

"You think this guy's stupid enough to flaunt his money?"

"He is from Miami."

Zing! As if being bombarded by Silver's face wasn't enough, now Miami comes in for some gratuitous bashing. I'm beginning to question my support for Brosnan and wondering why I didn't devote my time to writing a screed aimed at getting Dolce and Gabbana off their lazy asses long enough to save Miley Cyrus from herself. Pastels are the key!! Forget about leather, you monsters!

Ooo what have we here. Brosnan makes a compelling case for remaining relevant by exposing his ass. This would normally be an occassion of joy for young and old, but remember this is the same movie that would have the world believe his wife left him for Ron Silver! Now we're getting ass shots. Ok Mr. Director man, you're giving us close-ups of those sweet cheeks and you'll still have us accept the notion that his unappealing wife left those buns in the oven so she could have Ron Silver go down on her? I object your honor. Sustained!!!

I digress. When next we see Brosnan he's wearing New Balance and I'm ready to pack it in. Is there a New Balance store on Savile fucking Row? Did Errol Flynn wear skips? Did Cary Grant wear Uggs? I don't wish to know a world in which a man like Brosnan wears New Balance and marries a sea hag who cheats on him with Ron Silver. If someone with that face can't win what hope is there for the rest of us?

Almost as if he can sense my discouragement, Pierce attempts to brighten my spirits by sassing Silver as they saunter into his bedroom: "Any congressional pageboys under the bed?" Zing! Suck it, Silver! Implied statutory rape...how do you retort?

Silver is shockingly up to the challenge: "Just vaseline."

I must admit I was completely disarmed by his candor. He didn't boast about fucking Brosnan's ex-wife. He didn't tell Brozzy to go screw. Instead he whimsically admits he inexplicably keeps his lube under his bed instead of on his nightstand. If ever we doubted he was insane, this nugget dispels those doubts. Why would you keep your vaseline under the bed? Just where do you keep your dildos, Silver?? In the toilet??

Lamentably that question will go unanswered for this review, much like Ron Silver's life, comes to an abrupt end.

BROZZY RATINGS

The Movie: 6

Brozzy chesticles: 8

Brozzy ass shot: A Nadia Comaneci-like perfect 10

Female lead: 2

Ron Silver pierced while handcuffed to Pierce: 9

CLICK HERE FOR "BULLY FOR BROZZY PART II: THE BROZZENING"

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