Romantic movies are not love stories. They are self-contained in that period of time when pheromone imbalances make one feel all goofy and high. These movies don’t stick around for the afterglow, but who cares?

We should care because the innocuous love stories aren't always innocuous. See enough of them, and you might begin to wonder why your wife doesn’t act like Meg Ryan, and by Meg Ryan, I mean “Meg Ryan,” not Meg Ryan, who ended up dropping her philandering husband, so she could canoodling with a boorish Aussie who starts fights in English pubs, gets pummeled, and then looks to his gaggle of sycophants to bail him out.

These movies have a narcotic effect, but like some mild narcotics, if taken in moderation, they can be fun — even beneficial. Used correctly, they’re like the second glass of wine you pour your wife so she might remember why she used to touch you, and therefore we should feel good about feeling good seeing them.¹

So go ahead and rent When Harry Met Sally. Exercise caution however, and keep in mind that all romantic movies are not benign even when taken in moderation. There are a few types that are particularly disturbing and irresponsible, and we should reject them outright. By all means, rent hard-core pornography, watch late night Cinemax, but reject the following. It is your responsibility as a moral person:

The “Aren’t Retards Great?” Movies: (Benny and Joon, The Other Sister, Regarding Henry)

The message of these movies is simple: Out of the mouth of babes come pearls of wisdom, and if we only could see the world through the eyes of a manchild, lunatic, or innocent, why then, yes then, we could see what love is all about.

The only problem is that you’re not simple. You understand subtext. You have existential fears. You have subtle but important concerns about the person you’re with, because you’re both fairly complex and this leads to a greater chance of incompatibility, not to mention more clever ways to be jerks to one another. And let’s face it, mental retardation is a terrible affliction, and these films clearly adumbrate that truth with pathos-larded messages of empowerment. They are pious frauds that manage to insult both their subjects and audience.

Oh to Be in Paris and in Love . . . and Dying of Cancer: (Sweet November, Autumn in New York, Dying Young, Love Story)

Writers have discovered that a nice, clean way to get rid of that pesky afterglow is to kill off one of the characters.

My suspicion is that they are pandering to the creepiest thought ever had in a relationship. Namely: ‘Man, this relationship would rock if only you’d die! That way I wouldn’t get tired of you, and wouldn’t have to get all jealous once you moved on. Plus, I’d look all noble, ‘cuz I stuck around while you were dying. And, I’d finally learn what’s important in life, which is something I haven’t concerned myself with up to this point, because I’m mentally and philosophically lazy. Man, if only you had Lupus or something . . . that would KICK!'

Ken Doll Movies: (The Wedding Planner, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, My Best Friends Wedding)

The Ken doll is a strapping young man, but pull his pants down, and he is just like Barbie from the waste down. Smooth, plastic, and without any testicals. In other words, the Ken doll is a lot like “Hugh Grant” or “Matthew McConaughey” – and once again I don’t mean the real Grant or McConaughey who were caught getting blown by a crack whore, and playing bongos high and naked with another man, respectively.

They homogenize the man for the sake of a predominantly female audience, and the result are characters who do things like make touchy feely decisions over driven ones, because that’s what the love interest wants them to do. So, in other words, Keanu gives up a fabulously lucrative career with an evil man for the benefit of Charlize Theron. (Am I talking about Devil’s Advocate or Sweet November? You decide.)²

The other “sticky” element these movies eliminate is genuine male sexual response. Guys in these movies may become erect, but they don’t get ragging hard-ons. They may make love, have sex even, but they don’t desire to fuck like animals so badly that they can taste it. You get the basic idea.

Hey Kid, Why Can’t You be More Like Hayley Mills?: (The Parent Trap, Irreconcilable Differences, Sleepless in Seattle)

From what I’ve heard, divorce can actually be difficult for kids. And as if it’s not a rough enough transition for them, we put out zany comedies like The Parent Trap.

Oh my child, you parents told you it’s not your fault that they got divorced, but they have to say that. If you were only cuter, more enterprising, a bit cleverer, like that irrepressible Hayley Mills, and not such a lame, depressed crybaby, then maybe, just maybe, you could get your parents back together. They still love each other, of course. I guess you’re just not trying hard enough to get them back together. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come up with a way yet . . .

² Leave it to highly paid writers, kagillionaire producers, bizillionaire directors, and pampered actors and actresses who would all kill their mothers to make it in Hollywood to let us men know that we shouldn’t care so much about getting ahead, because we’d be happier if we devoted our entire existence to making our women feel like princesses. Thanks.