Ocean’s Eleven

Have you ever had a roommate who refuses to clean anything? It’s usually someone with a dog or cat that defecates on the carpet and any other place you’re sure to step in it. And then their owner walks around the turd like it’s furniture.

Let’s just say that Steven Soderbergh is your roommate. He lets his pretty little Hollywood pets pinch a loaf wherever they want…like at your local movie theater. And furthermore, the sycophantic friends of Soderbergh talk about what a great piece of smelly, steaming furniture he has crafted.

Folks, that’s not furniture, that’s Ocean’s Eleven.

I’ve heard Ocean’s Eleven described by critics as “hot”…”slick”…”a stylistic masterpiece” all words I’ve used to describe my own crap. What’s the difference between my toilet mud and Soderbergh’s work? No one pays to see my crap and attempt to convince the world that it’s a “stylistic masterpiece.”

It was boring, unfunny and contained large amounts of George Clooney, Brad Pitt and enough Julia Roberts to make any man want to see ol’ horse mouth gallop around a track.

Ocean’s Eleven gets 137 ½ Swayzes:
X 137 +

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