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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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How the Grinch Stole Christmas

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This week:

How Ron Howard Stole Christmas

Filthy says:
"Anyone know where Ron Howard lives?"


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.

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