We start out with aerial shots of some desert, with a nice sports car racing along in the blowing sand and dust. We don’t know where the car is headed, but since it’s the desert, it’s most likely not anywhere fun and I’m already losing interest. Cut to a woman staring out a window, her lips all pouty and freshly-painted. Then we suddenly have Marc sitting on a green couch and bellowing the words with an intensity that usually indicates someone needs gallbladder surgery.
Wait, why is Marc starting off Pitbull’s song? Is this going to be another example where the featured artist actually does all the work, and the “main artist” basically sits around in a chair, drinking beer and hollering “that’s right, uh huh” after every chorus? Hmm. We’ll see.
Wait, there’s Pitbull, standing all alone in a patch of cracked ground. He’s got his arms out like he’s ready to meet Jesus, but before we can see if that really happens, we’re back with that car racing to nowhere, then with Marc on that couch, bouncing around and sucking back what I would hope is a nice glass of gin. Meanwhile, Pouty-Lip girl is still standing at the window, apparently unimpressed that Marc can sing and drink at the same time.
Cut to a woman in the desert wearing a pointless dress that is sheer enough we can check on the outcome of her latest waxing. She’s walking away from a perfectly good bottle of vodka sitting on the sand, so you know her priorities are messed up. Before we can ask her what her problem is, we start doing this split-screen thing with Marc and Pitbull. Marc is still sitting on that couch (did they not have a very big budget for this shoot?) and Pitbull is still tromping around in the desert all alone, wearing a suit and his trademark attitude that Jesus should be coming to meet him.
Now there’s another girl, or maybe one of the same ones, it’s really unclear, is fiddling with some sunglasses and appearing to wantonly need something. We don’t have time to get her story, either, before we’re back with Pitbull and his arid hand gestures. Gauzy dress woman comes waltzing up to him, because strangers appearing out of nowhere happens all the time in the desert.
Well, maybe they’re not strangers after all, since Pitbull starts fondling her like he desperately needs to set the oven to 350 degrees. (We get some jump shots of just Pitbull, smirking and very proud of the fact that he just touched some breasts.) Then he’s groping her some more, pretending like it’s a sexy dance, and she’s accepting the groping and smiling to indicate her readiness for plunder, pretending like she doesn’t mind that she now has sand everywhere sand shouldn’t be.
Back to Marc and Pouty for a bit, just so we can be assured they are still drinking and sweating, then we spend some time with a woman who feels its perfectly normal to let a snake crawl all over her body. (I guess she went to a different kind of school than I did.) Then we get to a bit where Pit and Marc are singing together in the desert while the sun lowers behind them. Well, somebody’s singing, let’s put it that way. The other one feels that all he really needs to do is wear sunglasses and the world will love him.
Eventually we have Pitbull encountering another woman wearing a billowing dress who wants nothing more than to have Pitbull touch her inappropriately, followed by some girl swimming underwater. It turns out she’s only doing this so she can break the surface of the water and make herself look just like the promo shots for Wild Things back in the day. (Except that she’s clearly not Denise Richards and probably won’t be marrying Charlie Sheen.)
This doesn’t stop the woman from staring wetly at us forever, waving one of her arms about in a manner that she apparently thinks is sexy, but actually makes her look like Helen Keller on a bender.
Somebody crosses their legs just right, and suddenly we’re someplace very dark, with an interesting image of rain-drenched Marc and/or Pitbull playing on a screen while yet another female gyrates in front of it, doing an interpretive dance of the Stock Market on a very busy day. Just to make sure we don’t forget that all women can’t help but want these two men, we have jump shots of Wet Girl being joined in the pool by other girls who just want to stretch and paw at themselves in a frenzy of passion. (Or maybe it’s the chlorine fumes.)
Then we have a montage of Pitbull and Woman Number…. I don’t know, 84 or something, dancing together in the desert and having the best time despite the heat and the scorpions and the lack of anything moist for miles. Whoops, I guess Pitbull loses interest in her, because now he’s running his hands over another woman (wow, I never noticed that he has really small fingers) while she squirms seductively and he smiles at his own prowess.
This kicks off a veritable parade of women flouncing and bouncing in various scenes, with the central theme being “just dance around like you gotta have you some Pitbull even though you understand that he must be with hundreds of different women every night, never remembers any names, and sure as hell won‘t be signing anything”. Or something like that.
And finally we roll into a mix of everything we’ve seen so far, with revisits to Pitbull speaking the language of thrusting hips with a cavalcade of revolving beauties, Pitbull and Marc doing the “Couple’s Dance at Sunset” thing with both men believing that raising both hands and pointing your index fingers in different directions is very important, and then everybody, including a dance troupe that just happened to drive by, gathers in a part of the desert where it actually rains, and they all do a line dance about the joys of getting wet while wearing black.
Final shot is of Pitbull being lead to a helicopter, which then takes off across the sky. Did the Singing Police finally catch up with him?
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