Ten minutes into Because I Said So, I shit my pants. Not by choice. And not like a steaming load just plopped out of my ass. Rather, this was a slow, warm leak that started around the time Diane Keaton's character called her copulating daughter to remind her that her tits were lopsided, and it continued right through the second all-girl singalong at the end of the movie.

This shitting thing isn't normal. I'm not trying to brag, but I'd say I can control my bowels practically 93 percent of the time. This wasn't a, "Aww, man, I thought I was just gonna fart" moments, either. No, Because I Said So forced me to shit my pants.

Have you heard of these experiments the government does? They torture people in foreign countries: they can dislodge an enemy's bowels with only sound waves and other psychological tactics. Because I Said So has the same capability.

I don't know for sure what part of the movie did it. Maybe it was the high-pitched bickering of the the girly cast that lodged in my spine and vibrated to my ass. Maybe it was the speed-dating montage, the furniture-moving montage, the women singing doo-wop, the fucking phoniness of every God damn scene, or all the screechy, hysterical women calling each other on cell phones. Or maybe it was the way the few men in it had their balls snipped off and crammed into the space where their personalities were supposed to be. Maybe the movie will lose money in theaters but find second life as a tool of the Defense Department. The nail-on-chalkboard shriek of Diane Keaton having an orgasm could easily bore through the rocks of Tora Bora.

Because I Said So made me shit my pants.

Diane Keaton, in a role that will redefine her and make people forget she was ever in Annie Hall plays a shrill, new-agey, jingly-jewelry bitch mother of indeterminate career living in a multi-million dollar house. She has three daughters: Lauren Graham, Piper Perabo and Mandy Moore, all of whom also live in homes straight out of middle-class aspirational Learning Channel remodeling shows. She pesters the daughters by cell phone mostly so the movie can have a shit-inducing running gag of her not finding her phone in her giant handbag. Tee hee. Dribble.

First thing I don't understand is why the daughters call her back or answer their phones. Fuck her. If she is so God damn meddlesome, pick up the phone, yell, "Eat shit and die!" and hang up. Hell, my mother only calls once a month and I do it every time. It's a little something called payback.

Between pratfalls where she lands face first in cakes, Keaton harasses her kids while the brood try on dresses or shoes in department stores. Because, you know, women like shopping and men like sports. Oh, except the men in this movie. They don't like a God damn thing except doting over annoying broads.

Graham and Perabo are married. I think Perabo was also mute. I don't remember her saying a fucking thing. That's good. But Moore and her fat ass are single, so Keaton plots to hook her up.

This leads to a running gag about Keaton accidentally connecting to porn on her computer, and it's really loud. So loud that it makes her dog hump furniture and callers ask what's going on in the background, much to Keaton's obnoxiouse, hammy shame. Yet, she's so fucking stupid she doesn't know how to unplug or turn the fucking thing off. She knows how to turn it on, but not off? What sort of fucking retard is this?

Anyway, she finally manages to place an online personal ad over 1000 words long declaring she is seeking a "life partner" for her daughter. That's fucked up enough, but what's even more fucked up is the movie's makers think that respondents would line up out the door for that. Who the fuck has the attention span to read shit like that? Who that did wouldn't be scared crapless? "Oh, finally: the girl of my dreams, described by her mother in interminable prose. I bet she's hot!"

The audiences gets subjected to a montage of Keaton meeting ad responders. Guess what? The guys are losers; runny noses; bad teeth; the same old tired dating-montage clichÈs that I've seen done better in commercials. Tee hee. And my bad case of the shits worsens.

I wonder who dumbass writers Karen Leigh Hopkins and Jessie Nelsonthink responds to really crappy ads. Not even me. The logical approach for Keaton after writing such a creepy ad would be to immediately cross off anyone who responds and then let Moore publicy bone any other person in the world. They'd have to be safer and more normal.

Of course, the last candidate in the montage is dreamy, Muppet-mouthed super-successful architect Tom Everett Scott, who charms Keaton with his sophisticated tastes and wealth. He wins the approval to date Moore. He apparently wants to, even after seeing the ad and meeting the terrifying, Stucasaurus-like creature behind it. The movie never explains why such a winner is answering ultra-pathetic personal ads, but if its director Michael Lehmann were that deep a thinker, he would have realized long ago what a TV-hack he is and killed himself.

Now, here's the "hilarious" twist. Watching all these candidates interview from his stage in the bar is hipster lounge guitarist Gabriel Macht. For no logical reason, he becomes intrigued in the freaky Keaton and decides he wants to date her daughter.

Moore dates the uptight, uber-rich Scott in his house in the hills, and she dates the guiter-teacher-to-children-wonderfully-warm-single-father-fedora-wearing-goofy-old-car-driving Macht in his home on the canal in Venice Beach. (Yes, everyone--even the struggling artists--must have ridiculously posh digs because this movie is geared for fucking morons who like to look at pretty things).

Can you guess who Moore chooses in the end? Can you guess who Keaton roots for at first, but later decides to let go and let love take its course? Can you imagine a movie so fucking fake, dictated by magazine fashion over common sense or emotional honesty? If you can't, you're an idiot, and this movie was made for you.

Be warned, though, wear Depends. One Finger for Because I Said So. It made me shit my pants.