Friday, 23 May 2008

What Happens in Vegas Review

I hate Ashton Kutcher. I hate him so much a film such as this is my idea of an Austrain basement with a rather bad paternal figure. I hate his face. I hate his smugness. I hate his floppy hair and his grating voice. I hate every film he's ever been in. Mainly because he's in them. Also because they are shit. Really terrible shit most of the time. The Butterfly Effect, Guess Who, The Guardian, Just Married? The first question is how the fuck have I seen all these films and the second is how many times daily does he take the full length of beelzebub's shaft up his asshole.

This may be the hardest premise to write because while I know it has something to do with the increasingly irritating Cameron Diaz marrying that pillock and then having to stay with him for a large sum of money, all I remember is playing my new game of how best to torture Ashton until he owns up to his crimes against humanity and begs for me to end his stupid worthless life. I'd start by shaving his preposterous attempts at a beard, but the razor would of course be blunt and I'd 'inadvertently' end up ripping half his face off.

Once his 'cute' looks have gone he'd know his life would be over and he'd begin to weep eternally. I say eternally but one day I'd catch a glimpse of The Guardian, my least favourite of all his tripe, and run down to the basement where I keep him and smash his face into the ground until it resembles paste and bone. The funny thing is in my head I start to miss his screams. They gave me so much joy and pleasure that now they've gone my life seems emptier. But my work is done, my reason for being on this earth is accompished. After a while all would be right with the world.

Apparently I have to put how this is all a joke and I wouldn't really attempt to kill Mr. Kutcher. Or else I can get into trouble for 'sending death threats' and if Mr. Kutcher did turn up dead I could get blamed. Whatever happened to freedom of hatred? I remember the day when you could write detailed accounts of how you want to systematically torture A-Listers all day long. Barry Norman did an entire piece on Charlie Sheen and a blowtorch. Its political correctness gone mad. So anyway don't kill Ashton. Maybe kick him in the shin though.

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