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.

Quoth Nancy-boy: “It assembles all the elements for a laugh-out-loud comedy, but it can’t make them fly.”

In the theater where I saw Wedding Crashers [official site] people were laughing so hard they were crying and gasping for breath. Maybe it’s because they’re able to lose their inhibitions and think trolling nuptial celebrations for chicks is cool…maybe they’re not an asexual troll like Roger Ebert.

This my friends, is what a movie should be. Two funny guys (Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn) surrounded by

• Hot chicks
• Hot chicks showing their fun-bags
• Acceptable S&M (not the really scary ball-gag type)
• Touch football with horrific violence
• Casual sex
• Dwight Yoakam telling his soon-to-be-ex-wife to kiss his left nut (you’ll remember him as “Doyle Hargraves” from Slingblade)
• The occasional F-Bomb
• Christopher Walken (always appropriate)
• Boats (even the faggy type are ok)
• Excessive imbibing of hard liquor
• Guys punching each other in the face
• Bad guys kicking the hero in the nads so you really hate him
• Trickery
• Slovenly male behavior
• Deception

The only real flaw might be that no one dies at the hands of an Italian mobster, but hey, even Godfather had its flaws. I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but you know what I mean.

Look, I can understand why Roger Ebert is bitter. Since 1972 he hadn’t seen his own twig and berries. So he goes off and loses a bunch of weight only to discover that his man-pole looks like a maggot wearing a turtle-neck sweater. You’d be angry too.

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…

Turns out I was suffering from some sort of sugar-induced depression. And I was even more physically unhealthy than usual. I’d ingested enough Yellow No. 5 food coloring to poison half of Chicago. I’d eaten so many goddamn little marshmallow chickens that my doctor thought I had jaundice and lockjaw. Turns out those little buggers are NOT a substitute for vegetables or anti-depressants.

Well, I’m back in good health now, working in the garden and sparring with my Macaque on a daily basis. I’m lean, mean, and doped up like a 4th grader with ADHD. We think that you will like the new format, and hope that some of the people we know so well will come back and contribute: Fairy Princess, Chris Peddie. Mindy, Tabs, Prozac Man,… you know who you are. We miss you all.

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.

Sex with Angelina always begins in my mind with knife play. Using an ancient Egyptian ceremonial dagger (and inexplicably dressed like Ma Ingalls) Angelina binds my arms and legs and begins to carve symbols of power into my quivering, sausage-scented flesh. These symbols are always powerful and demonic: inverted pentagrams, goat horns, the Enron logo. Anything to make me feel like a naughty little initiate in the temple of Jolie, tasting the forbidden fruit from Angelina’s tree of quasi-evil.

From there we move on to soft-core vampiric role-play that I don’t really feel comfortable relating.

But then! Oh God, but then! We tumble headlong over the cliff of lust, embracing each other in a free-fall, making love madly as we plummet into a huge vat of Pierce Brosnan’s toenail clippings and half-cooked vermicelli.

Whew! What a ride! But it’s not over… as I smoke a chocolate flavored cigarillo, my 74-year-old flab glistening in a post-coital glaze, Angelina works me over with a pair of brass knuckles and a nerf broadsword, kicking my ass up and down Wacker Drive while simultaneously tongue-kissing a black woman dressed like Jon Voight.

Man, I’m exhausted just telling you about it. If you have any spectacular fantasies of your own starring Angelina Jolie, please keep them to yourself you sick bastard. Abe Froman for Masochists that Su…errr… I mean Movies….Abe Froman for Moviesthatsuck…signing off.