Every time I see a trailer for ‘I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry’ I start showing the symptoms of radiation sickness. It’s as if my blood has been replaced by acid. My hair starts falling out and I feel nauseous. A cold sweat breaks as I cough and splutter.
It’s not the existence of the movie itself that angers me. It’s the morons that will go and see it in their droves, grinning inanely at one lame soap-dropped-in-shower gag after another, barking like seals and flapping their flippers every time Adam Sandler throws them a salty fish.
If my best buddy got dogknapped, and I received a ransom note saying “If you want your friend back, leave £500 in twenties under seat K27, screen 3 of the Surrey Quays Odeon during the 2130 showing of I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry“, I would shrug out some cliché about every dog having his day and move on. Sorry, pooch. No can do. Let’s hope doggy heaven is a real place, cuz I’d rather grind my own eyeballs into a smooth paste and use it as a base for a sauce than see this piece of shit movie.