Please Put My Quotes on Your DVD
I eagerly anticipated the release of your obviously carefully crafted piece of work. This time of year, with the awards season looming over us like an impending teabagging, we critics often get mired down with an abundance of quality. And working for a website that prides itself on providing “scathing reviews for bitchy people,” it becomes quite difficult to muster up any amount of scorn or sarcasm for movies that are actually pretty gosh darn splendid. But once in a while, glinting on the horizon like an approaching train chock full of the spoiled offal of a thousand criminally insane inmates, a film of such odiousness, such rapturous disregard for not just taste or decency, but the basic concept of a story or even simply having people act comes chug, chug, chugging along. This is purportedly the third installment of National Lampoon’s Dorm Daze saga, but without the moniker brazenly slapdashed across the back like the saggy-ass tramp stamp disappearing into middle-aged ass-spread cleavage. Even Harvard will only let you cling to the bottom rung of the class like an encrusted dingleberry before flicking you into the terlet of ignominy. But as a critic who has been lacking an opportunity to really eviscerate a puerile, horrendous shatfest travesty that dares to charge full cinematic price like an aged crackwhore claiming she’s a high-class call girl, I can only say “God Bless You, Transylmania, for showing me what true cinematic bliss truly is.” You scum sucking fucktards from a Trenton landfill.
“To call Transylmania an achievement wouldn’t be entirely out of question. Are you paying attention, awards givers?” To make something this unfathomably awful, the absolute nadir of celluloid, actually requires a Herculean effort. Even though the final product seems like it was fashioned with absolutely no effort whatsoever — more like filming old-ass wannateens in line to a corrupt church haunted hayride. The same retards from the first two … things, now well into their thirties, are in Transylmania. There are vampires because Twilight’s a thing right, but that’s like saying Shaving Ryan’s Privates is a war drama because people occasionally wear uniforms. The plot is not something you can put into words so much as point to where it hurt you on a rape doll. There aren’t any bloody vampire battles, or graphic nudity, or extended bodily fluid sequences that would really earn an R rating. It’s like someone tried to fashion a movie out of a Maxim magazine with the articles spank-sealed together, more of a porno without fucking. There are no jokes to speak of. Or if there are, they are released with the moist thud of someone miscarrying during a spelling bee. I can’t imagine who they thought their target audience was besides mouth-breathing pledges at state schools and twelve-year-olds sneaking into their parents’ basement to watch late night Skinemax. Except the kiddies could have written a better movie by shoving a pencil in their butt holes, squatting over a notepad, then inducing seizures by watching anime.
“Move over Precious! We’ve got a new contender for Best Picture of the Year!” Because imagine the sheer audacity of marketing something as “comedy” that’s less laugh-worthy than a parable about a morbidly obese ghetto teen getting verbally and physically abused by her welfare-latched mother and incestuously impregnated by her own father. Translymania is less funny than the reading of the names of people who died during 9/11. The chutzpah! Honestly, they made fart jokes unfunny. This film should be considered a litmus test for forcible sterilization. If you laugh, even once, you should immediately seek chemical castration. By that, I mean you should repeatedly pour a scalding hot McCafe on your genitals until they melt. It would be a better way to spend your time than suffering through this.
“Transylmania had me clutching my sides and wetting my pants!” I actually discovered that I began hemorrhaging my own internal organs through my anus. I caught most of my kidneys and liver in a half-drunk cup of Mr. Pibb. I’m sure the two meth-addled chimpanzees they chained to typewriters thought their jokes in the film were fucking hilarious, just like the uncle who thinks he’s just tickling you until it gets a little too close to the swimsuit area. I would sooner sodomize myself with a rock lobster and a running start than endure another film by National Lampoon.
“I wonder if we’ll be lucky enough to get a Dorm Daze 4?!” I actually wonder why this even got theatrically released. I’m offended — as both a screenwriter and a person with cognitive motor skills — that this movie got funding. I’m not saying that every freshman film student shooting a lesbian clown flipping pancakes deserves money. But someone read this scribbled hack shit and thought “Wowee! This is gonna be so funny and make a mint!” And then didn’t stuff a rabid badger in their underpants before leaping into the oncoming path of a semi. It begs the question, why do we bother reviewing this? And I cannot give you a valid answer. I wonder if Friedberg and Seltzer sunk some of the orphan tears and Nazi gold they earned from the Movie Movie debacles into this just so people will watch The 40 Year Old Virgin Who Knocked Up Sarah Marshall and Felt Superbad About It and think, “Well, shit, at least it’s not Transylmania.” (That is a real movie title. But Freidberg and Seltzer did not have anything to do with it. They’re breeding.) I can say with all certainty, “You will never have a theatrical experience like this if you live to be 300!!!” Unless you screen Yentl on the Gaza Strip on Ramadan.
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