Notes before reading:

-Please play John Mayer's "Dreaming With A Broken Heart" while reading
-Light some jasmine-scented incense for mood-setting
-To really gain the full effect you should put a poncho on

Someone get me a rag, I need to wipe the Michael Bay off my chest. I know, I should have planned ahead and worn a poncho, but I was so hopeful that things would be better this time around. Speaking of ponchos, what is the deal with them? Sometimes I imagine a poncho as one of those loose hazmat-looking jackets people wear at baseball games when it rains. Those people are the worst, they probably still chew Stride gum, screw them. Other times, I imagine a poncho as a carpet with a hole in it that Spanish people wear with their favorite sombrero. I like this kind of poncho more because it has culture, but it seems less effective in blocking my dress clothes from a giant robotic jizz-fest. So when I mentioned a "poncho" before, I was referencing the one the later. Okay, now that's out of the way...

I really should have worn a poncho because what I witnessed on screen was not a film, but instead three hours of Michael Bay staring directly into the camera and slow-masturbating. Though, let's be honest, no one can jizz quite like Michael Bay. Remember that one time when robots from space hit each other in the face while Even Steven screamed? That was a good time. But as Bob Dylan once said, "The times are going to be changing now" or something like that, his work is irrelevant now because he's old. During TRANSFORMERS: DARK OF THE MOON, I knew this was the end of Michael Bay's and my relationship. I was promised redemption, I was told things would be different this time around. Well, now the games are over, TF3 showed me the man behind the curtain...masturbating.

The problem is, watching Michael Bay masturbate used to be fun. Some people call it the "honeymoon phase," but I know it was deeper than that. In TRANSFORMERS, Michael Bay showed me so many new tricks that I'd never seen before in a theater. I multiple Bay-gasmed the first time I saw TF1. It seemed like our love would never end. I can still remember those summer nights when I would sneak into a theater for a quickie with TRANSFORMERS. There was magic in the air. Those are the only moments I have to cling to now.

In TRANSFORMERS 2: THE BAY MAN COMETH, I learned an important lesson - when a full grown man masturbates in front of you, it will only be fun if it runs just under two hours. The things that used to dazzle me in a theater now left me feeling cold and abandoned. No wants to see Bay huff and sweat one out for three hours, only to cry at the end and leave us all alone in the theater with our ponchos* dry. It was demeaning to Bay as a person and I'm not sure I've ever quite recovered from that incident. But Bay continued to promise me that things would get better, that he knew the mistakes he made, and that he was determined to change. I was only but a fool, riding out the fumes of a love I knew was past its Optimus Prime.

In the weeks leading into TRANSFORMERS 3: MICHAEL BAY TAKES A PEE, I had been hearing that Bay's groove was back and better than ever. TRANSFORMERS 3 does succeed in a thorough 40-minute poncho-dampening and yet I still left the theater feeling unsatisfied. I was heartbroken and sad. Sad because I knew it was over. Even though Bay put forth his best effort and displayed a remarkable climax the likes of which Ron Jeremy could only ever dream, it didn't matter anymore. I saw Michael Bay and my relationship for what it truly was. Somewhere in the mix of all the slow masturbating and poncho-ruining, I had fallen out of love with Bay. I can't say it was all his fault, since the writing had been on the wall for some time (I mean, he produced I AM NUMBER FOUR behind my back while I was at space camp last summer). I'd simply grown too much to be in love with Michael Bay any more and no amount of fancy 3D jizz in my face could ever change how I felt inside.

I'll always remember the times we spent together. I remember that one time when we made love for two hours while Areosmith's "Don't Wanna Miss A Thing" played on loop in the background. But those are just memories now. It's time to put my poncho in a shoebox under my bed and move on to bigger and better cinematic weiner-fests. Look for me on Craigslist.

Au revoir, mi amore...