Clint Wouldn’t Let His Fans Down, Would He?

So my wife says, “Let’s go to a movie.”

“What’s playing?” I say.

“There’s a new Clint Eastwood movie up at the Octoplex,” she says.

“Clint Eastwood?” I say.

“Clint Eastwood,” she says.

“Clint Eastwood as in ‘Dirty Harry’ Clint Eastwood?” I say.

“Clint Eastwood,” she says.

“Clint Eastwood as in ‘make my day’ Clint Eastwood?” I say.

“Clint Eastwood,” she says.

“Clint Eastwood as in the guy who used to light fuses with those tiny little cigars Clint Eastwood?” I say.

“Clint Eastwood,” she says.

“I love Clint Eastwood,” I say.

“So let’s go,” she says.

“Just a minute,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“There isn’t a piano in this movie, is there?” I say.

“No. Why do you ask?” she says.

“Because,” I say, “the last time you tried to drag me to a movie I asked you ‘What’s playing?’ and you said ‘Harvey Keitel’ and I’m thinking we’re going to see a 9-millimeter emptied into somebody’s face or maybe an ear cut off and it turns out to be a two-hour movie about somebody’s stupid piano.”

“You missed the point,” she says.

“I missed the point?” I say. “These people leave an expensive piano sitting on the beach to swell and rot and you’re telling me I missed the point?”

“Are you going to come to the movie with me or not?” she says.

“Just a minute,” I say.

“What now?” she says.”This movie doesn’t have Daniel Day-Lewis in it, does it?” I say.”No, why?” she says.”Don’t you remember that episode with the Milk Duds when we went to see ‘The Last of the Mohicans’?” I say.”He took off his shirt,” she says. “I was caught off guard.”“Yeah,” I say. “And when you leaped out of your seat, your jumbo Diet Coke flew into the lap of the man sitting behind us.”“I didn’t know he had a heart condition,” she says.”He didn’t either until then,” I say.”Well,” she says, “you don’t have to worry. Daniel Day-Lewis isn’t in this.”

“Why,” I say, “do I get the feeling that there’s something about this movie you’re not telling me?”

“What’s to tell?” she says. “It’s a Clint Eastwood movie.”

“True,” I say. “That’s the nice thing about Clint: You know he’s not going to betray his fans by doing some sappy love story.”

“You can say that again,” she says. “None of that mushy stuff for Clint.”

“Clint has good, solid American values,” I say. “If it doesn’t come out of the muzzle of a .44, it’s not American.”

“Bob Dole couldn’t have said it better himself,” she says.

“You know what the trouble is with America these days?” I say.

“I hesitate to guess,” she says.

“Too many Meryl Streep movies,” I say.

“Too many Meryl Streep movies?” she says.

“Too many Meryl Streep movies,” I say. “Particularly the ones where she fakes a foreign accent.”

“So,” she says, “you’re essentially talking about every movie Meryl Streep ever made.”

“Precisely,” I say. “Which is another good thing about Clint Eastwood.”

“What’s that?” she says.

“You’ll never catch him doing a movie with Meryl Streep,” I say.

“So,” she says. “Are you coming to the movie with me or not?”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “I wouldn’t miss this movie for the world.”

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