[SPOILER ALERT]
Screw you, Marley and Me. I’ve got dogs, and they do a perfectly good job of getting me to spoil them rotten without your help. I already feel guilty enough every time I make them jump down off the warm, cozy spot they’ve eked out on the couch. Now thanks to you, alongside my own anthropomorphizing issues, I will always add this thought: “One day these pups will die. Your children will cry; your wife will cry; you will cry; and you will feel like a complete asshat for every time you snapped at them instead of feeding them foie gras and rubbing their bellies.”
I didn’t need that. I’d already had a long day. I was tired. I had nine episodes of Big Love on my DVR. Instead, I chose to watch your heartfelt, adorable movie and then I spent forty-five minutes trying to swallow back the billiard ball in my gullet and blaming my blubbering on allergies. Do you know how many hours of Grand Theft Auto I’m going to have to play just to feel like a man again? Do you know that the last time a movie made me cry was when Gone in Sixty Seconds destroyed that beautiful 1967 Shelby GT 500, and the time before that probably involved being scared of oompa-loompas?
So go to hell.
And if you need me, chances are I will be in the backyard, installing a window unit on the new doghouse.
The amount of marketing you see for a movie is inversely proportional to the amount of awesome that movie provides you.
ReplyDeleteSomeone was describing Face Off the other day. They said casting Nick Cage and John Travolta was a physics experiment to determine whether the value of a film could be absolute zero.
ReplyDeleteEvidently it can.