My brain hurts. The other day, we decided to go to the movies. My wife, known to me as She Who Gets To See The Good Movies, took our youngest little dude to see some inoffensive kid-fluff. My two older little dudes begged, pleaded, demanded, and begged some more to be taken to see Paul Blart: Mall Cop, starring and written by Kevin James.
That’s two hours of my life I will never get back. When I’m lying on my deathbed reviewing my life, I’ll probably be cursing my two oldest sons for making me waste those two hours. I could have been doing something fun and worthwhile, like, maybe, root canal surgery.
I’m going to paraphrase from my favorite penguin here: Bad plot. Bad special effects. Bad acting. Bad script. Bad costumes. So bad that it created a black hole of badness that sucks all that is good within itself and crushes it within its gravity well of badness. Well, it wasn’t that bad. But Lord, it wasn’t good.
I think you get the point.
About halfway through, I started closing my eyes to block out the pain, humming softly (not too softly, considering I was all alone in one of the back rows) to escape the insipid dialogue and occasionally punching myself in the nose to remind me that it could, maybe, get worse. And then it did. How, you ask, could something that bad get worse? Easy. It just kept on going. And going. The joke was worn down to powder, leavened with concrete, mixed with water, poured under the foundation of an outhouse and then dynamited and still the movie kept going back to the same, stupid joke: Mall cops aren’t very competent. Wheeee! Wasn’t that fun? Answer: No.
The worse, however, came after the movie ended. I grabbed some used napkins I’d found wadded up under the seats and staunched the blood flowing from my eyes, ears and nose and stumbled to the exit, picking up my two big little dudes on the way out. When I’d regained the power of speech, I mumbled to them, “So, how’d you like it?” fully expecting the same sort of excrutiating pain I’d gone through.
“It was great!”
And then they started repeating some of the lines they’d just heard in the movie. I had to step away least I began losing my control over my urge to commit violence about their heads and shoulders. I know frontal lobes of teenagers’ brains don’t develop until they’re in their 20s, but I’d exposed them to enough of the good stuff that I thought they’d be able to recognize this movie for the pile of excrement that it was. Apparently I was wrong.
I still have much work to do. I’m starting here. Do not go see this movie. Do not rent this movie. If the movie ever shows up on your television screen and you’re too ill to work the remote control, just go ahead and choke yourself into unconsciousness. It will be easier that way.
This movie gets zero dudes. I’d give it a negative number, but I’m not sure that’s allowed.