I’ve always been ambiguous about the existence of God. I’m more agnostic than I am atheist: It’s difficult for me to deny the existence of some almighty spiritual being once I witnessed the birth of a child, or if I take a moment to consider the complexities of man, of the animal world, of Earth, and the Universe. Even if you believe in the Big Bang Theory, there still remains nagging questions about what set the Big Bang in motion. How do the Chaos Theory and Evolution co-exist without a God? If you consider the trillions and trillions of things have to be coincide at the right moment, at the right time, and in the right place for life to exist, it’s difficult to completely rule out the idea of a grand deity, a maker, someone to pull the trigger on existence. If you believe in Occam’s Razor — the idea that the most reasonable explanation is the simplest one — God, in a way, almost feels like the simplest way to explain the miracle of existence.
But now, even those doubts have been called into question. The idea that a God would allow war, famine, disease and Snooki to exist is not unfathomable: It’s the universe’s karmic balance, the yin to the yang of peace, prosperity, and good health. There’s a give and take to existence: Death cancels out life, starvation in Africa cancels out obesity in America, and “Two and a Half Men” cancels out “Community.” But the scales have tipped too far, calling my entire tenuous belief system into question.
I’ve seen Adam Sandler’s Jack and Jill.
If there is a God, he might allow a fire whirl to kill 40,000 human beings in 15 minutes, but no God could be cruel and inhumane enough to allow this movie to exist, to be screened in front of millions of innocent people. It’s incomprehensible. No God would allow Adam Sandler to dress up as his own twin sister, to prance around in a dress and a wig and speak with a lisp that would haunt even demons, demons that couldn’t handle the emotional carnage that Female Sandler inflicts. It’s too much ugly. There is a scene, about three-quarters through Jack and Jill, where Female Sandler — after eating Mexican food for the first time in her life — spends an entire five-minutes unleashing ass biscuits while Male Sandler stands in the doorway reacting to both the sound and smell of her flatulence. THIS IS NOT COMEDY. In what kind of world does listening to a woman take a shit qualify as humor?
God would not allow this much pain to exist, and if there is a God, there must be a Satan, and Satan has a wicked sense of humor. Satan would not stand for this. SATAN WOULD NOT ALLOW IT. If there was a Satan, he would look like Mickey Rourke, and Jack and Jill would’ve provoked in him so much righteous anger that he would’ve risen out from the bowels of Hell and destroyed all of heaven and above.
Nor would Satan accept the presence of Johnny Depp in this movie. If there was a Satan, then clearly Johnny Depp’s late-career success would be owed to a Devil’s Pact, and Jack and Jill would’ve nullified such a contract. Depp would’ve disintegrated during his scene with Al Pacino, and there would’ve been nothing left but a gold tooth and wispy mustache hair. Oh and Al Pacino, who wears a Taliban beard in this movie for comedic effect, who has a meltdown on stage because of a cell-phone ring, and who lusts after Female Sandler. Motherf*cking Scarface, people, has been reduced to this, a lecherous date rapist trying to get under the skirt of Female Sandler. What’s even more criminal is that Pacino is playing himself. The entire premise of this movie rests on the fact that Al Pacino would never sell out to Dunkin Donuts (and their Dunkacino Drink), unless the director of the commercial, Man Sandler, allowed him to Hoo Wah! Female Sandler’s Hoo Hah! What ungodly creature did real-life Adam Sandler allow Pacino to blow in order to convince him to make this movie, then?
The irony is richer than Warren Buffet.
Where is your God now, people? Because he certainly wouldn’t have allowed this, he wouldn’t have allowed Sandler’s regular cronies — Tim Meadows, Dana Carvey, Norm MacDonald, Dan Patrick, Shaquille O’Neal, Allen Covert, and John McEnroe, among others — to collect healthy paychecks for abusing the audience. Even Nick Swardson has a role in this, and all Nick Swardson does in Jack and Jill is exist to remind us how much better Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star was and Bucky Larson was the worst movie of the year. Until Jack and Jill came along. But Jack and Jill is not a movie; it’s a weapon of mass destruction that not even Stalin would’ve been sick enough to use.
There is no God. Jack and Jill is all the proof I need. Death is the end. There is no soul. Life is without meaning. We are worm food, unlucky enough to occupy the same space with this wretched excuse for a movie for a few decades before our hearts quit, before some other random act of luck and coincidence picks up a shovel and throws dirt over our bodies, which will rot and decompose and live in the guts of insects until we are excreted back into the ecosystem and forgotten about. But Jack and Jill will never be forgotten; the power of its awfulness is enough to break through the rift of space and time, to sear through the universe and destroy black holes. When the end of the world arrives, there will be nothing but blackness and the vivid memory of this movie’s horrors, which will imprint on the nothingness and forever prevent the coincidence of life from happening again.