Yo, peep this my peeps: Every romantic comedy is the same. Sure, some of the details in between are different, but in the end you know the two are going to have a fight, then makeup, then get together again and live in harmonious bliss: IT’S PURE, UNADULTERATED HOLLYWOOD BULLSHIT!
First, if you’re going to make me watch a romantic comedy, gimme some tits!!! You’ve already wrecked my afternoon with a chick-flick, at least gimme some cans to focus on while I suffer. Who the fuck, besides Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes, give a fuck about this silly, flat-chested hoe? If she’d been a cavewoman, her children wouldn’t have survived the first day.
Someone attempt to prove me wrong about romantic comedies. Two people, painfully processed by focus groups, are promoted as the lovely, charming protagonists – the kind of people Hitler had wet dreams about. They meet and begin to become attracted to each other, either by fraud (as in this bleech) or by some other means.
Bonding ensues – 99% of the time there’s a fight and the required separation ensues. It’s slathered with a plethora of “how it used to be when I was with him/her” video montages sickeningly covered with saccharine, disposable music replete with counseling from friends that even Charlie Manson wouldn’t consider taking advice from.
They realize the error of their ways and that they can’t live without each other. Billy or Susie Perfect chase down the disaffected partner who immediately forgets about how you fucked them over or lied to them (or how he has a small prick or she has a rancid-smelling vagina) and they live happily-forever-after buying shit and going to romantic comedies, desperately trying to figure out how they got in this hopeless marriage.
No man with a cock over three inches long gives a shit about this drivel. Now you may be saying, “Rufus, I’m sure the depraved ass-clowns who made the movie care!” Read the first sentence again.