MovieTimes: Devils and Such

I just stumbled across this piece of bile that was intended for The Doughty Traveler, but never quite made it. So, I share it with you now. It is, as you might have guessed, a movie review:

This Thanksgiving, I was in Cleveland, enjoying the company of the fiance's family (and getting stuffed with more Italian food than there is dough in a calzone factory). But that's all blah blah blah (not really...it was an amazingly wonderful time and her extended family couldn't have been warmer. The food was incredible, and I love her cousins--they're little kids, so it was probably the clown skills. For the sake of this post, however, blah blah blah will do for ellipsis). The important thing is that I saw the worst movie ever on the plane home.

No, no, I kid you not. The worst movie made by man (or woman or beast or whatever unfertilized zygote masquerading as intelligent life that was behind this shitstorm of a project).

The title of this movie: The Devil Wears Prada.

My title for this movie: A Flaming Piece of Monkey Scat.

My comments at the end of the movie, and I paraphrase loosely: "Did this just happen? Do people make movies like this? Do people watch movies like this? Do I still have an ounce of gray matter in my skull or is it somewhere under the folks back in row 37, having putrified into some kind of maggot-ridden tapioca as a result of the mere ten total minutes I watched of this movie."

I didn't even WATCH the movie and I wanted to cry. I did cry...tears of blood. Like a horned toad...but I'm a human.

You wanna know the plot of this movie? Take a blender, swallow some frozen corn whole; after you pass it, throw in the intestine peelings that they wrap tubes of sausage with, and hit liquify. Smell it and then pour on top of wherever you ended up wretching. That is the plot of this movie.

A million monkeys with a million typewriters couldn't have up with this story. It would have been too smart. It must have been one monkey, born without limbs, fed lead paint chips for a decade, whose only typing occurred when sufficient quantities of drool depressed a key.

Predictability on a scale of 1-10, the higher the score being better: Um, lemme think, I'd give a....0. That's 0 degrees Kelvin, as in Absolute Zero. That's like saying I hated it infinity times, but in negative.

Oh Meryl Streep, you're so tough and yet your life is soooo hawd? Well, then maybe stop pretending you're a cartoon and have a real life (that goes for off the screen as well...what on earth provoked you to audition for this dunghill?). Oh wait, you can't because you're trapped inside the worst movie made by anything with opposable thumbs. Hey, what's happening? Are they speaking in tongues? No, the blather that passes for dialogue is so mindless, I had to mentally translate it into gibberish to prevent me from being driven insane.

It continues, but I won't, lest you think less of me. Don't ever see Devil Prada I Hate Myself or whatever it's called. If you do, you're not my friend.