Good Luck Chuck / Dustin Rowles
Film Reviews | September 22, 2007 | Comments ()
Step right up, folks! Come one, come all. We’ve got one helluva feature for you today. For the low, low price of $10 ($7.50 for matinees), we’ve got a glorious 96-minutes of entertainment value featuring three, count ‘em three main attractions. Starting with the one, the only, the Douche-tongued lothario, the Prince of Douchelvania, the Captain of the S.S. Douche: Daaaaaaaane Cook, a man capable of inhuman levels of anti-comedy, a man so douchetastic, he sprays actual douchewater when he speaks. In today’s show, he’ll be playing Charlie Logan, a man cursed as a young boy to perpetual “other guy” status — sleep with Charlie once, just once ladies and gentlemen, and the next person you meet will be your one true love! However, before Charlie finds his own true love, you will have to endure 376 dick-and-boob jokes, 17 lame reaction shots, and witness this vile creature fornicate with umpteen bare-chested womenfolk — or props, as director Mark Helfrich likes to refer to them as — oftentimes in split-screen, meaning for brief periods of time, you get two, four, six, 12! Dane Cooks for the price of one! A bargain at twice the price, ladies and gents.
But that’s not all we have for you today. No sirree, Bob! Step right up within the next two weekends, before this cinematic classic leaves theaters, and you also get Dan Fogler, the human cum-stain. That’s right: A 275-pound blob of anthropomorphic ejaculate. He leers. He repulses. He disgusts. He jerks off to mammograms. He masturbates into grapefruits (no shit). And at no extra cost to you, you get to leave the theater feeling icky, sticky, and wet, almost as though you’d been slimed by Fogler’s seminal fluids! In Good Luck, Chuck Fogler plays Stu —Charlie’s overeager hornball best friend; he smells like ball sweat, he fondles women inappropriately, and yes! ladies and gentlemen, he actually wants to “suck farts” from ladies and likes to speculate about the taste of penguin excrement. You can’t buy that kind of comedy anywhere else! And if that doesn’t tickle your taint, Stu even sets Charlie up with a revolting, morbidly obese woman with severe front-, back-, and side-acne, chronic flatulence, and an inability to fit into her mouth the handfuls of seafood she shovels, before promising to “fuck [Charlie] until [he] die[s].” But don’t worry — Charlie doesn’t die! But you might — of shame for the human race! Because I can’t think of a more hateful, mean-spirited way to attempt comedy extraction — and you’ll need plenty of Novocain to survive this one (sorry, Novocain sold separately).
But ladies and gentlefolks, today’s featured attraction — the bang for your buck, so to speak — is none other than the main draw in the Fantastic Four films and the star of Into the Blue. Give it up frat boys and skeevy old men with a little too much butter on your popcorn, let’s hear a big round of applause for the one, the only: Jessica Alba’s Ass! Not content enough in Into the Blue simply to swim around and hook up with Paul Walker’s abs, Alba’s ass returns for a limited engagement, giving those of you incapable of finding a date of your own once more a chance to ogle, stare, and hoot “hurt me, hurt me,” while sitting next to your mom (that actually happened in the screening I attended). Two ripe cheeks of flesh! Watch as Alba’s ass falls into a penguin pool, as Alba’s ass runs into a pole, and as Alba’s ass take a warm bath! It’s squishy. It’s cute! Yes! It walks downstairs, alone and in pairs, and it makes that slinkity sound. It’s ass! It’s ass! A marvelous ass! Everyone knows it’s Al-ba!
So, come on down, folks. Get an eyeful of ass! Don’t let that air of desperation stop you. Misogyny, schisogyny; you can’t let that stand in your way — not when there’s so much Alba ass to go around. Here’s your golden opportunity to objectify women, immerse yourself in lame scatological humor, and exercise your peepers straining to see through Jessica Alba’s underdrawers! You won’t find a better bargain anywhere.
So, step right up; but watch your step, folks. There’s strange puddles in weird places. And be careful where you sit, because if you don’t watch yourself, that eyeful of ass may wind up an eyeful of … ;)
Oh, and good luck.
Dustin Rowles is the publisher of Pajiba. He lives with his wife and son in Ithaca, New York. You may email him, or leave a comment below.
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