The over-the-top silliness of the movie only functioned to further stir my memories of the happy, silly times we used to have: debaucherously arguing over whether or not someone was a lesbian right in front of them, drinking Brother’s completely out of Gin on those $3 G & T nights then screaming at strangers until 4 in the morning, and of course that time your friend slapped me right across the fucking mouth and then we spent the night in the park, unable to find our way home until the break of morn over the softly moonlit sky. As such, the movie left me forlorn and wanting for many things – one of which includes at least a consistent French accent for Steve Martin and Kevin Kline. It would have been nice if they had both the same accent and kept it throughout the entire film. But, alas, they did not, much as you did not keep me, a young man in the prime of his life, seeking only to make his lover happy.

I was also dismayed at the lack of Edwards-esque subtleties displayed in the direction of the film. It was as if they reached inside his very essence and ripped his still-beating heart out of his torso and tossed it aside for what they perceived to be “greener” and, perhaps, more broadly sillier pastures. I, for one, never saw this idea coming, and when I realized what was happening, I felt a load as heavy as stone and a bone-chilling cold come onto my ever-burdened shoulders. I asked myself, “Why, God and Mr. Steve Martin, why?!?!” Sadly, they, like you, offered no response. I will try to avoid this movie for the rest of my life, for nothing will come close to the original, just as… ah, woe is me…

Rating: 4 out of 10 broken lovers

Quoth Nancy-boy: “What I liked most about the movie, I think, is that it undermines the self-congratulatory myths we cultivate about sports in America.”

Let’s get something straight Rodge, or better yet, let’s let Billy Bob’s Morris Buttermaker ask you: “You got daddy issues or somethin’?”

Fat kids and nerds who didn’t play sports and can’t possibly understand the virtues of sport and what it teaches the 95% of children who CAN put one foot in front of the other. Teamwork, perseverance, hard work…the sheer joy of being a catcher and stepping aside to let a 60 mph fastball catch the jackass umpire right in the nuts. Hey, if he wasn’t making all those bad calls, that would have never happened.

And Roger, if you hate the “self-congratulator myths” we’re concocting, go watch the rest of the world get all hopped up on beer and Red Bull to watch a 0-0 tie. You’ll come running back to the only part of the world where a winner and a loser seem to be a necessity in sport. A tie isn’t like kissing your sister, it’s like watching your mom in a gang-bang video.

Now, about Bad News Bears [official site].

Bad: inferior, sub-standard, unfaborable, undesirable, unsatisfactory.

Look people, if you’ve already seen it, you could at least recognize that everything you need to know about Bad News Bears is in the first word of the title. I know that watching Billy Bob portray a slovenly drunk can be entertaining, but for the love of everything that is good and right…let it go Hollywood…let it go.

So anyway, I’m sitting in this junkyard contemplating my fate of going into the car crusher, as any sentient mechanical vehicle would (although that pretentious prick KITT would probably piss his oiltank and whine for hours, the big wimp), when suddenly this chick with these absolutely ridiculously huge breasts starts looking over at me.

I know it’s cliche at this point, but they really were spectacular. Too bad for all you poor bastards that Disney digitally de-hanced her tits. As they say, “who are the ad wizards that came up with this one?” Really though, WTF?? Are you trying to get people into the theater or what? I can see that board meeting right now.

“Hey, I think Lindsey’s tits are too big.”

“Too big? Too fucking big, did you say??!?!” I would have replied in shocked amusement, just before kicking that guy right across the fucking face (if I had legs instead of wheels, of course) for saying something that ludicrous.

“Yeah, they’re too big. Rust is good, up is down, and my big fat German driveshaft is too strong also.”

I mean, was this Eisner’s idea? I think he’s just trying to fuck Disney on his way out.

“Yeah yeah, her tits are just too big. We gotta have ‘em smaller so more people will come see the movie. And when you’re through with that, we’re changing Mickey from a mouse to a hamster. Yeah, I know, it goes against commonly held, rational thought, but we’re on the cutting edge here at Disney, right? We’ve done some market research that shows consumers are not as scared of hamsters getting loose in the house or whatever as they are at seeing a mouse scooting silently and, might I add, quite eerily, across the floor, therefore we concluded that “Mickey Hamster” is the way to go. No, that wasn’t a smirk– I just have an allergy to this, ah, this stack of cash I have over here… I mean, it makes sense, right? A hamster is all nice and cute and cuddly and whatnot– a hamster is your fucking buddy, no? But a goddamn mouse loose in the house, hell, that causes utter fucking chaos and anarchy left and right! Women screaming, kids freaked out, yeesh. It’s a hell of a time for everyone, believe me. I had a mouse in the house once and it was quite the son of a bitch. The wife wouldn’t walk across the floor until I had papered it with $100 bills courtesy of my extravagant compensation package, typical of Chairmen and CEOs whose companies are in the toilet. Hey no matter what, I’m better off than that Ebbers fuck, right? Yeesh, that guy really screwed himself. That’s the last time he hires the H&R Block at Sears to do his books, eh? Heh heh. I’ll have to send him a Mickey Hamster t-shirt to wear in prison for when his kids come to visit.”

Ahh, but I digress. Hey, I won’t lie to you, I’m glad to have some work again, and to be away from that General Lee for awhile. Geez that guy is always drunk off of
Uncle Jesse’s ’shine, and smells like B.O. for some reason. And he tells the same racist jokes over and over again. I mean, how many times can I fake-laugh at that one about the spelling bee?

Oh well… please go see my movie so I can be in another sequel and stay out of backlot storage… keep me away from that rapist Back To The Future Delorean. Gotta sleep with your rear end parked against the wall when that guy’s around, if you know what
I mean…

Will Ferrell can only do so much to carry a movie. Will rules! After Old School, Frank the Tank’s got a lifetime pass with me. I can overlook Bewitched and that sucky soccer movie he did with Mike Ditka. Soccer blows, by the way. There shouldn’t be a sport where you are allowed to go AWAY from your own goal. Soccer is a communal-hive groupthink game. The ball in sports should always be moving toward the goal, toward the points, toward the score…not prancing away from it with crisp, silly little passes. Australian Rules Football, now there’s a sport! Those guys look like they’d rip your cock off and flog your mother with it. Fuck hockey too, now that I think about it.

Anyway, Bewitched was a sucky TV show, which I guess is why it blows as a movie. There were two Derwoods during the run of the show. One of ‘em liked to part the meat baskets with his DNA faucet. Not sure if it was Sargent or York, although both of ‘em looked like they might hold one in their mouth ’til the swelling went down. Nicole Kidman is all cold and beautiful like an ice sculpture. I don’t care for that. Elizabeth Montgomery was hot and looked like you might be able to score with her if you saw her in a bar. A little Courvoisier, maybe a Screaming Vagina on the rocks. Nicole, on the other hand, looks like she’d get pissed if you even said vagina in her presence, i.e. “Hey toots, I’d really like to get to know your vagina.”

If you like vagina, don’t see Bewitched.

Couple of questions for you – has Matthew Perry EVER done anything funny? If you say “Friends” I’ll kick you square in your jewel-sack. Friends, Will & Grace, That fucking unfunny, swishy, asshole Frasier, and anything else on broadcast television would make anyone with an IQ over 70 wretch violently. So – did they see his potential in [movie with monkey]? What colossal jizz-bag did Matthew Perry blow to keep getting these gigs?

The only thing that kept me from walking out was the theater where I was watching it…Delta flight 178 from San Juan to Atlanta. That and the possibility that I might catch a brief glimse of Amanda Peet’s cooter.

You know what? Fuck The Whole Ten Yards! Let’s talk about something interesting – my vacation. We flew into San Juan on July 4th. If you’ve never gone on a cruise and left via San Juan, let me paint you a picture…just think of the Bataan Death March without the beautiful scenery. I stood in more lines than a Russian housewife. The San Juan airport…words fail me…fifty pounds of shit in a ten pound bag. The crew on the “Carnival Destiny” was reminiscent of the local Mexican bricklayers in Tennessee, only that the bricklayers probably have a better dental plan and working conditions.

The guests? Think Puerto Rican debutantes all trying desperately to look like Jennifer Lopez, but without the exercise regimen and plastic surgery…their parents, dressed like Pablo Escobar at Studio 54, wife in tow, looking much like the Tazmanian Devil’s girlfriend: Square, hairy, too much makeup and dressed like a Vietnamese whore going to church.

Yeah, me and Shaniqua are returning from a cruise – San Juan, St. Thomas, Dominica, Barbados, Aruba…more about that later when Shaniqua isn’t watching me type.

Here are some alternate (and more useful) activities for those trapped at home with nothing on the tube but the WNBA:

-Fashion rubber bands into earthworm suspenders and tube-tops

-Build a lifesize colon replica with your kid’s Legos and then violate it with a swimming pool noodle

-Play tetherball on ‘shrooms

-Teach your dog how to spread the peanut butter, not just lick it off

-Thumb wrestle with your ego

-Trim your pubes into the silhouette of your favorite war criminal or movie critic

-Eat at Joe’s, don’t just read about it

-Kill yourself or someone else in the most fiscally irresponsible manner possible

-Masturbate to “August” in your local Humane Society calendar

-Seduce a televangelist, preferably Robert Tilton

I don’t think there’s anything negative I can say about 40 Days and 40 Nights that wouldn’t come out as a severe understatement. To say that ‘fucking wretched’ is an understatement would be, itself, an understatement. To say ‘the worst time at the movies in recent memory’ would be unfair, as it rivals some of the worst non-movie times in recent memory as well. To say that first time screenwriter Rob Perez ‘deserves to be tossed in the middle of the fucking Pacific’ would be fine, except that I really think we need more water than that. We’ve got to make sure this guy doesn’t ever come back.

Though I’m sure you know it, I’d like to recap the plot, just for kicks: Josh Hartnett is hot. So he decides to abstain from sex for Lent. And that’s it. That’s the movie.

Of course, conflict arises, mainly because, like I mentioned earlier, Josh Hartnett is hot. And it doesn’t help that he’s living in a world in which every female character acts like a Maxim centerfold come to life. Or that he’s forced to fly over a computer-generated sea of boobs. No, I’m not kidding. It’s probably the most fucked up, embarassing, horrible thing I’ve ever seen on a big screen, aside from creepy British actor Griffin Dunne making his sickeningly vocal way to masturbatory climax. Which happens to be in the same movie.

It’s a fucking mess. Hartnett can’t act his way out of a paper bag, and he sure can’t act his way out of this piece of trash - playing ‘a bad liar’ he flutters his eyelids like an epileptic on daytime TV. Hiding a secret, he darts his eyes around like a mustache-twirling cartoon villain. Having a good time in one of the movie’s many feel-good montage sequences, his mouth hangs open like a dog. A slow dog.

It’s hardly even worth going over what happens in the movie — none of it makes any fucking sense. He falls in love with the girl at the laundromat, and for some reason they get into big fights over his vow - lots of crying and pleading and chasing ensues, none of it funny or interesting or worth watching. At all. There’s several dangling subplots that make a little more sense, but never amount to anything even approaching laughs: Josh’s brother, a priest-in-training wrestling with his own vows, provides advice until he ends up making out with a nun, which is the last we see of him. Josh’s boss at work, the aforementioned Griffin Dunne, is inspired by Josh’s vow and takes his own, which leads to Dunne to make lots of sweaty appearences, usually sporting a fake boner. But then, fake boners probably get more screen time in this movie than its only assett, Paulo Costanzo, who plays Hartnett’s roommate. It’s telling, though, that the funniest moments of the movie come in the precise comic pauses that Paulo takes between lines, rather than the lines themselves. In fact, Paulo’s hair alone is funnier than anything in the script. And you can find pictures of Paulo’s hair on the internet for free. Probably that sea of boobs, too.