Nudism Kills...

Imagine for a moment that you are watching one of those ridiculous (and often times awful) horror movies. You know the ones of which I speak. The only remotely recognizable actors are that one guy from that show you liked when you were a kid and the younger sister of some mediocre one hit wonder pop singer. Throughout the film you realize that either the writing for your favorite show was infinitely better than this drivel, or your childhood celebrity crush really can’t act worth a damn. Every fifteen minutes or so you think to yourself, or more frequently aloud to the group, “Why the hell are we watching this shit?”

Yup…those movies.

Invariably there will come a point in this movie when your well meaning, mentally challenged hero/heroin will run to the nearest house or look to their neighbor for help. Undoubtedly, there will be an uncovered window which reveals a person standing, sitting, laying, bathing, fondling or just posing directly in their line of sight and 100% in the buff. Most of the time, this is a woman. Bad horror usually relies on distracting the audience from the lack of plot with helium filled breasts. I think the same effect could be attained from a swinging bo-dangle, but maybe this is why I’m not a film director.

Point being: regardless of which anatomical nether bits the potential help has, they will be naked.

Not only does this shock the audience into thinking there might be something more to this piece of shit movie, but it distracts the main character long enough for their attacker (be it a homicidal anteater or some deranged doctor whose only desire is to see what a gastrointestinal hat would look like on a cadaver) to catch up and recommence with the gore.

Now I have always been a fan of nudity. I find clothing, any of it, incredibly restrictive. Ergo, I am without the socially acceptable coverings as much as possible. More often than not this is limited to my room, but I have to get my nudist on somewhere. My desire to be sky clad is only enhanced since my move to New York City. I’m not complaining about the heat, mind you, but this not having air conditioning is a bitch.

So there I stand beneath my ceiling fan naked as a mole rat. I’m not an exhibitionist, so I don’t go looking to flaunt myself, but I also find myself not caring too terribly much that my ceiling fan’s air flow puts me right in the open window. The drapes in my room are translucent, so they may provide some cover, but they are not always drawn. Whether or not they diffuse my image is of little importance to me. I’m not putting on a show. My give a shit simply is not there.

Recently, however, I began thinking about the possibility that someone has, at some point or another in my life, been able to see me. If I’ve ever had a peeping Tom/Tammy, I’m incredibly flattered. Thank you, you pervert. Perhaps a passerby caught a glimpse and blushed. Sorry to embarrass you, dear red faced onlooker.

And there is a distinct possibility that someone running for their life, someone running to me for help, was distracted a moment too long. I wish I could have helped you, but now you are likely dead. Really, it’s your fault. After you’ve seen all of your friends die in some sick, mind breaking manner, my uncovered man parts should be of little consequence to you. Compared to your girlfriend’s hacked up torso, I feel my nudity shouldn’t have that much shock factor.

Either way, I suppose it’s too late to help you now. I’m sure the boweler hat looks lovely on you.

So to all of you out there who find yourselves in a real time horror flick, expect the nudity. For your own well being, I suggest you Google image search for nudie bits. You never know. Some day, it could save your life.