Special
Guest Jen L., wife of Quote Whore Stephen Iervolino (whom TNT's
Rough Cut has called "No
Real Critic."
Stephen's wife
wrote to your old pal Filthy to say:
"Thanks for
calling my husband, Steve Iervolino, a whore. Perhaps, you're
jealous? Glad you have a lot of time on your hands to do this
type of stuff. You're a whore to the masses."
Well, Jen, I certainly
am jealous, but it's mostly of hermaphrodites, not your husband.
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©2000 by
Randy Shandis Enterprises. All rights fucking reserved.
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This week:
How Ron Howard Stole
Christmas
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Filthy says:
"Anyone know where Ron Howard lives?" |
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Someone shit under the Christmas tree, and this year it wasn't
me. It was that bastard Ron Howard, he snuck into my house and
dumped a furry green load right there next to the Buck Knife
from my parents and the copy of "The Difficult Husband"
from Mrs. Filthy's grandmother.
Fuck Ron Howard. Fuck anyone who thinks beloved childhood
stories are just overloaded piggy banks to raid. Fuck the pricks
who will scrape the meat off the bones of our childhood and sell
it back to us at $8 a pop. Fuck anyone who thinks the way to
make a children's book into a movie is by throwing shitloads
of money at it, not for one instance understanding the beauty
was in the simplicity. Fuck anyone who hires Jim Carrey to mug
like a retarded child and expects us to eat it up. Fuck How
Ron Howard Stole Christmas.
Let's recap the story for anyone who's been in jail for the
last thirty years. The Grinch is a furry green grouch with a
heart two sizes too small. He lives in the mountains above Whoville.
The Whovillians are celebrating Christmas, and that really pisses
off the Grinch. He hates all the toys, the trees, gifts and the
crass commercialism of it. He straps his dog to a sled and comes
down from the mountain dressed as Santa Claus to steal all their
gifts. Once he's stolen the gifts, he's as smug as Al at the
Arvada Tavern is every time he pisses in my beer bottle and I
find out too late. But, rather than ruin those Whovillians Christmas,
the lack of material items helps them see the true meaning of
Christmas. When the Grinch sees that, his heart grows three sizes.
The message of the Grinch is that Christmas is about sharing
and caring, blah-de-blah blah. But this fucker Ron Howard spends
100 million dollars to tell us this and he's about as credible
a messenger as the priest who tells you how wrong it is to suck
altar boys' cocks while wiping off his chin.
All Ron Howard really cares about is shoving his hand up our
asses and pulling out shitloads of cash. He wants you to understand
the meaning of Christmas, so long as it doesn't stop you from
buying Grinch toys for Christmas, Sprite Grinch shit, and I'm
sure some fucking Happy Meal has the Grinch plastered on it.
I guess Richie Cunningham thinks us dipshits in the middle of
America need a lesson about charity from our spiritual guides
in Hollywood. He thinks we need it so bad he beats us over the
head with his phony message, assuming maybe we're too stupid
to get it from more subtle references.
Fuck you, Ron Howard, you lousy thief. And fuck that little
shitty kid who sings the awful song about the true meaning of
Christmas. There are few less pleasant moments than that phony,
Disney-on-PCP crap. But, I bet Howard will yank a muscial hit
out of it.
What sucks most is just how mean this movie is. How Ron
Howard Stole Christmas is as warm and charming as a plastic
Christmas tree with painted-on snow that catches fire and burns
children's eyes out. The bastards behind it had no interest in
the message they're flogging, just the bottom line. So, they
stretch a wonderful, short children's book into a padded, crass,
mean, harsh fucking bitch of a flick full of greedy, sorry pricks.
I can see enough of that type fighting over massaging chairs
at the Sharper Image for free.
How Ron Howard Stole Christmas looks like it was filmed
in Dorothy Hammill's garage with all the shit she ripped off
from "Holidays on Ice." I mean, this movie looks cheaper
than if they made it entirely with monkey statuary from Tijuana.
The snow is faker than my wife's eyelashes, the Whoville cars
are golf carts with fiberglass shells, and the set is a tiny
space so all the people and action are crammed together. Whoville
is supposed to give off some sort of goofy surreal vibe, but
all it really does is give me a case of the heebie-jeebies.
The Whovillians are hideous monsters. They're dressed in clothes
to make them look even stupider than they act. And believe me,
they act plenty stupid, like they're in a regional children's
theater putting on an exaggerated production for the sight-impaired.
They're hammier than my shit after Christmas dinner. And the
only cues we're given as to who to care for is by being told.
You'd never guess to give a reindeer's fuck about any of them
otherwise.
And that bastard Jim Carrey is awful. He's obnoxious and loud,
sure, but it feels more desperate than a man buried alive who's
digging for his life. He's shrill, crass, and as funny as a case
of pink eye. If you think wearing a shitload of gross makeup
is a talent, well, feast your eyes. But, I think real talent
requires you to be doing something original under all that shit.
Really, I don't give a flying fuck how many hours he spent getting
made up every day. I care how few hours the writers spent thinking
up this sorry story.
One fucking finger for this Christmas nightmare. It's
the perfect movie for all the assholes who spend weeks at the
mall and then bitch about what the holiday's really about. This
kind of Christmas is for suckers. Fuck you, Ron Howard, you lousy
Grinch.
Want
to tell Filthy something?
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