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March 30, 2007 |

By Dustin Rowles | Industry | March 30, 2007 |

Many of you may recall that, several months ago, I alerted you to the hidden, tortured souls of Johnny Knoxville, Wee Man, Bam Margera, et al., men who I posited were acting out their repressed homosexual urges through infantile stunts meant to simulate the feel of a man’s love. I reckoned, in fact, that the men of Jackass “really, profoundly want[ed] to fuck each other. On a chair. In the backseat of a Volkswagen Bug. In a library carrel. Or against a rock,” and offered, as evidence, “a grown man who would literally deign to eat horse shit — such an act is unmistakably tied to one’s inability to progress beyond Freud’s anal stage, providing ample subtext to the film’s homoerotic overtures.”

Well, an anonymous reader has sent along evidence suggesting that the Jackass crew has decided to create a retreat, so to speak, for closeted men. In an article written in Variety this week (under the subhead: “Dickhouse Signs Deal”), it was reported that the trio behind the Jackass franchise has banded together to form a new production company, which they not-so-subtly refer to as the Dickhouse. Indeed, Dickhouse has signed a deal with Paramount Pictures to “expand the company’s brand beyond the gross-out franchise.” And I think we all know what that means: Male torture porn. Hot man-on-man “butt chugging.” A place where men of all ages can come to shove hot wheels into their anuses and play with “anacondas” free from the judgment of condemnatory eyes. Indeed, they have created the ultimate safe haven, a Dickhouse where they can shack up and gawp fondly at one another’s penises under the guise of a “production deal.” I think we all know, however, that the only thing being produced at “Dickhouse” will be several cases rectal prolapse caused by efforts to shove increasingly large appliances and other housewares into their anal cavities, all for the sake of a cheap laugh. Well, and to combat sexual frustration. We here at Pajiba wish you gentlemen the best of luck in your endeavors and hope that one day the world we’ll begin to accept your kind — and by “your kind,” I mean homotosterotards.

Meanwhile, in this week’s further misadventures in ’80s remakes, the powers that be have decided to resurrect Teen Wolf, and — as if to throw shit at your head while your standing up to your neck in vomit — they’ve decided to go in a new direction with it. Yeppers. The “teen wolf” this time around will be a female. Because there is nothing hotter than a teenage plasticine celebutard (Sophia Bush? Brittany Snow?) inch-thick in fur while shaking a pompom. Cause you know she’s going to be a cheerleader — it’ll be like a lupine Bring it On, where the teen wolfette will hold an inverted cheerleader pyramid up with one hand. And, of course, the marketers will call it a female empowerment film, all the while trotting out enough skin to start a Frankenhooker franchise. And guess who has been cast, probably as the love interest? “Smallville’s” Tom Welling. Because teenagers should all be played by 30-year-old men, that way when they cast Rhona Mitra as the 11th-grade teen-wolf cheerleader, there won’t be any difficulties skirting the statutory rape laws.


In last week’s box-office figures, the Turtles finally knocked the Spartans to the second spot, as TMNT and 300 grossed $24 million and $19 million respectively. Shooter debuted with a decent $15 million, The Last Mimzy managed 5th place with $10 million, and The Hills Have Eyes 2 landed at number six with $9.6 million.

As for this weekend, well — it’s a tough one to call. In a few hours, we should know whether Blades of Glory is another in Will Ferrell’s stable of one-trick stallions or if it’s closer to Ricky Bobby on ice skates. I’m guessing the former, though I’m warning you: If there’s actually a Def Leppard number in the film (as the trailers suggest), my review may be skewed slightly positive, particularly if they pull out the one-armed pirouette for that scene. (“Come on, Steve — Die.”) The Lookout, on the other hand, has our high expectations working against it — you got the writer of Out of Sight, the lead from Brick, Carla Gugino, and Isla Fisher; if it’s not completely kickass fantastic, it’ll be a disappointment. The kiddies have the 3-D animated Meet the Robinsons to look forward to, and though it doesn’t look like my bag, the “big head, little arms,” line — delivered by the futuristic dinosaur — made me giggle the first 3,000 times I saw the trailer (note to aspiring critics: The worst thing about the gig is not the innumerable insufferable films, it’s sitting through the same exact toilet-water awful trailers week after week after goddamn week; if I see the trailer for The Reaping one more [email protected]%*!ing time, I’m going to enact each of the 10 biblical plagues upon myself). In a few days, we’ll also bring you our review of The Peaceful Warrior, which is a helluva title to give to a goddamn gymnastics film.

And before I let you go so I can sneak off to see Will Ferrell stroke his nipples, I’ll leave you with the brand-spanking new teaser trailer for one of the most anticipated films of the summer: Cuba Gooding’s Daddy Day Camp.

Nah. I kid. Check it: The Bourne Ultimatum, y’all. “Sit down. Strap in. And turn on all you got. This is Jason Bourne.” Giddyup.

Ah-ooooo, Werewolves of Pajiba

The Daily Trade Round-Up / Dustin Rowles

Industry | March 30, 2007 |

Dustin is the founder and co-owner of Pajiba. You may email him here or follow him on Twitter.

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