new movie came out this weekend. 50 First Dates. Starring Drew Barrymore as a chick who seems to have forgotten that the man laying next to her in bed is her boyfriend and Adam Sandler who seems to have forgotten that he stopped being funny after Happy Gilmore. Although I’ve never seen this movie, I’m going to tell you what it’s about and pass judgment nonetheless. Because that’s what I do.

In the movie, Drew “Cum-guzzling whore” Barrymore has short term memory loss. This is a great cost-cutting cinematic device as it allows the writers to use the same jokes time and again, something with which Adam Sandler has much experience. You see, although repeating the same movie over and over may have been a formula that worked for Chris Farely – if the fat fuck hadn’t up and died before finishing work on Tommy Sheep and Black Boy – with you Mr. Sandler, it don’t work at all. But that’s the premise of this entire movie: repetition. Imagine the movie as a cross between Memento and a pile of shit.

Amnesia is a great cinematic device as it allows the lazy-ass contemporary American writers to use the same jokes… oh. I think I already said that. I can’t remember though. I must have amnesia. Sure is funny, isn’t it?

I know I've already complained about Drew "Fuck me, I'm an idiot" Barrymore, but I'm going to do it again. What the fuck are you going to do about it? That's right: jack shit. Now, sit down and read. Anyway, where was I before you rudely interrupted? Oh, yeah, so I figure that as Ms. Barrymore has a new movie out, my previous exposé on her faults wasn't quite enough to dissuade Hollywood from hiring her. How the hell is she still getting work? The novelty of her hideousness wore off faster than a buzz when the cops pull you over for driving on the wrong side of the road. Not like there was anyone else on it, fucker, go eat some donuts and sit on your night stick. She’s not even ugly in a funny way like Louis Anderson or Steve Buscemi. Barrymore’s just scary and vaguely offensive. The sooner the world sees this wench for what she is, the sooner I can consider my life worthwhile: She can’t act, she can’t be funny or sexy or pretty and we can’t kill her. That’s what really riles me.

Allow me to update my already established position on this filthy, filthy whore. And when I say filthy, filthy whore, I don’t mean filthy in the “I’m European and therefore I don’t bathe regularly” sense. I mean it in the “I hate you” sense.

After watching her last movie, which was a huge mistake, Drew’s repugnant face haunted my dreams, turning them to nightmares, crowding out the naked ladies who previously inhabited the blank space between my ears. My only consolation is that, being immortal I will outlive her. I’ve already written an article about her hopefully untimely demise:

Drew Barrymore Dies in Freak Gasoline Fight

Death was lingering and painful for this onetime actress, fulltime filthy, filthy whore. After eighty hours on life support, the disfigured child star finally succumbed to third degree burns over 600% of her grotesquely fat face.

Acting physician Dr. O. Chunder had this to say: “At first we were unable to determine the source of Ms. Barrymore’s distress. I thought she looked just liked she did in that one movie about that guy who sings those songs at weddings, but then I realized that the lack of body hair and charred skin oozing puss were actually very serious burns and not her normal appearance.”

Unregrettably, a worldwide morphine shortage guaranteed that the stupid bitch suffered for the pain she had dealt to the world through her attempts at film making. Especially the two Charlie’s Angels movies. And that fucking piece of shit about never having been kissed. In memory of this momentous occasion, the president has declared a national holiday. Abroad, we see just how much hatred can bring people together as Iraqis and Americans, Israelis and Palestinians, French and people who wear deoderant forgot their differences and united in rejoicing Ms. Barrymore’s long-awaited death. In related news, it seems all the world’s cases of AIDS have been cured. Turns out it wasn’t a virus at all but an extreme allergic reaction to the deceased. Who knew?

And on that day, the Winkies and I will dance through the street singing “Ding dong, the bitch is dead, the wicked bitch is dead.” Oh, what a glorious day. My nipples tingle just thinking about it.

Oh, but we should feel sorry for her because she was an alcoholic at age nine and was in rehab for coke addiction at age 12. So, I should feel sorry for you because you could afford drugs as a teenager that I can barely afford now? Of course, if I could afford these drugs, bearing your existence and watching your movies would be a less troublesome task.

Oh, Drew, if only your parents had had the juvenile drug problem that you had. You probably would have been aborted. Or retarded. Either way, the world would be a better place and I probably wouldn’t have turned to crack for comfort.

What really pisses me off about this movie is Adam Sandler’s character. What the fuck is your problem, Mr. Gilmore? She forgot all about you. That’s the perfect chance to get the fuck out of the relationship. I can’t think of a cleaner break unless maybe you killed her. Hmmm. I smell a sequel.

I mean, I empathize with Sandler's position. It’s happened to me a million times before: you get into a relationship and then the gallon of vodka wears off and you realize this new-found significant other is actually a filthy, filthy whore and you want to get out but you don’t wanna seem like an ass so you kinda just hang on to the relationship like DiCaprio hung onto that raft at the end of movie Tit-utterfuckingfailure-anic. Move over Kate Winslet, you fat bitch, there’s room up there for two. But no, she doesn’t move, and so ratface just hangs there in the freezing water just as you cling and search for some excuse to break it off. But in the case of this movie, she got amnesia. Just fucking run, dude.

Don’t get me wrong, some of Drew Barrymore’s movies are pretty good. They’d just be a hell of a lot better if she weren’t in them. Donnie Darko, for example. If it weren’t for Drew’s unfortunate presence Donnie Darko could have been one of the greatest love stories of all time. The entire "movies about six foot tall imaginary rabbits" is pretty badass, in fact.

Drew Barrymore, you and your excessive popularity are the reason I cry myself to sleep each night. Why is the world so wrong? I can understand why you’d be so popular if this were the 1800’s and Barnum and Bailey’s was the hot thing in town. You could stand right between the bearded woman and the fat man in your iron cage. Not that anyone would pay to see you, but at least you’d be off the street, you filthy, filthy whore.

Now, if this were the 1800’s and the circus were in town… wait, I forgot. I already did that joke. I must have a comic case of amnesia. Fuck. I think I did that joke, too. Suffice it to say: Fuck you Drew “Face not even a mother could love while sober” Barrymore.

Drew Barrymore is Satan. No, worse, she’s the goddamn anti-christ. And Adam Sandler, why don’t you take your guitar and shove it right up your ass. Don’t worry, it’ll fit. Trust me. Just look what this bitch did to Tom Greene: she stole his balls, ruined his show and left him for dead on the side of a street in Vegas where he was violated by all manner of street persons. At least, that’s what I read in People. Or The National Enquirer. Or maybe I just made it up. I don’t even know anymore.

If only she’d been born a few hundred years earlier when infanticide was a more accepted practice. Her parents could have left her in the forest next to that ugly ass Lindbergh baby. Drew Barrymore is the leading argument for twentieth trimester abortions. I just hope some politician will read this and take up the cause until I get elected emperor. For now, all I can think of is how much I want to hit her right in the nuts. With a metal bat. Or, baring that, perhaps a crudely-hewn cudgel with sixteen penny nails inserted at irregular intervals.

Oh God. All this talk of Barrywhore is making me nauseous. I can taste bile in the back of my throat. Hang on a sec, I need to go vomit…

Isn’t it odd how corn looks the same coming up as it did going down? Looks a bit like Drew Barrymore. It seems that even in sickness I can’t escape this horrid harpy. Not even in the sacred shrine of the porcelain goddess.




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