Back in the salad days of the early-to-mid-to-late 19th or 20th
century sometime, one bitchy suffragette (let’s call her Susan B.
Anthony) was on her period, as usual. “I tire of childcare!” she
screeched, “Why can a man not care for a child? Surely a mister can be
a mom! A cop can manage a kindergarten! Three men can scrape feces from
the buttocks of a baby, and a fat uncle can cook a very, very large
pancake, and these things are not beyond the ken of a just and decent
society! Also, hand over the chocolate and no one gets hurt.” Then she
died.
Now, when the president of Hollywood (let’s call him Louis B. Mayer)
heard Susan B. Anthony’s idea, he leaned back in his chair and cracked
his knuckles. “$$$$$$$$$,” he said to no one in particular, “$$$$
$$$$$$$$ $$ $$$$$$.” And lo, the mother-man genre of cinema was
born.
Sometimes we, the public, are forced to endure three-month stretches
without the intoxicating wackiness of a Big Daddy or a The
Pacifier. Those are dark days. But it’s time to stop crying,
people, and take a big old sniff of what Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is
cooking. Because guess what? It’s baby poop, and it smells
hilarious.
In The Game Plan, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is Joe Kingman,
a self-obsessed football player who is simultaneously known as “The
King,” “Never Say No Joe,” and “#1 on the Field and #1 in Your Hearts.”
When an annoying 7-year-old named Peyton appears, claiming to be his
daughter, Joe finds himself in a genuine pickle. “Sorry, annoying
child,” he tells her, “I cannot care for you. You see, I am a man, and
my apartment is full to capacity with trophies, catchphrases,
megabucks, protein shakes, wet muscles, and my penis.” Two hours pass,
and they do ballet together, and Peyton exclaims, “Daddy, you won the
championship!” and Daddy replies, “Aw, Peyton! I won much more than
that!” and they hug, and you and I are two hours closer to the
grave.
