Last night I watched The Golden Child while folding laundry. (I know! Even I’m a little overwhelmed by the constant excitement of life here in Hoboken.) Towards the end of this cinematic gem, there’s a scene where – SPOILER ALERT!
Say, do you really need to say “spoiler alert” for a movie that’s nearly twenty-five years old? Did I really just type twenty-five in front of the word “years?” In other news, I’m pretty sure I just felt my left hip shatter.
Consider yourself warned, regardless.
At the end of the movie, the female lead (who died earlier saving the man that she loves, natch) is resurrected by a tiny Tibetan bald kid. In typical movie fashion, the second her heart starts beating again she sits straight up and starts licking Eddie Murphy’s uvula as though her recently reclaimed life depended on it.
Now I’ve probably seen that movie at least fifteen times and never thought twice about that scene before last night. But this time…well, I found myself dry heaving.
Just earlier that morning I’d rolled over in my half-sleep and accidentally placed my super sniffer within an inch of my husband’s epic morning (after a garlic-laden dinner) breath. Having consumed the same meal, I was also rocking some serious mouth rot. If we had locked lips at that moment, I’m fairly certain birds would have fallen from the sky while steel girders melted.
Whadya reckon death breath smells like? Probably like zombies – putrid, a little metallic, with maybe a faint hint of boiled lima beans in there, too. Exactly the sort of environment you’d want to avoid sticking your tongue into, am I right? (Why am I suddenly picturing Lindsay Lohan?)
Come to think of it, I bet Prince Charming had to swallow back some vomit when he awakened Sleeping Beauty. At least in Rip Van Winkle there’s no kissing involved. And while I haven’t read the Bible myself, I’m sort of doubting there’s a graphic make-out scene when Jesus is resurrected. I’m also relatively sure there are no tiny Tibetan bald kids. Or a half dragon lady that sounds like a drag queen in an echo chamber. (But to be certain, I’ll let our resident Catholics, Tom G. and Dufmanno, weigh in on that one.)