THE BLOG
07/11/2009 05:12 am ET | Updated May 25, 2011

The Hangover : Proof Humor Is Dead. D'oh!

Let me state this unequivocally and in terms that fans of this dreck will understand. The Hangover sucks.

This is the worst movie that has received the most attention. A movie written for children. Retarded, short-bus, bicycle helmet, severely mentally-compromised kids. It's "written" for simpletons who find South Park deep. It's the Boeotian's Citizen Kane. It is devoid of...no, it's beyond devoid. It's vacuous, insipid, vapid, at best. It was written for the mentally-challenged and pathologically-unimaginative. It blows chunks. It induces chunk blowing. It's cinematically emetic.

Get my point?

Look, I love a great poop joke just like the next guy. A well-placed F-bomb is swell. Name it. I love gross. But I love a plot more. Gross with a purpose. Gross with a point. Why is the angry comic so prevalent? You know, the dude who spouts F-this and F-that. The dissolute polemicist who peppers his repertoire with a Curtis LeMay carpet bombing of the almighty F. It's everywhere.

This is punch line without set-up. How sad. Seems to me that the issue today is shock and gross. And what we're producing and catering to is a generation of comedically-myopic, sniveling, low-brow, uneducated dolts who don't want to do the comedic math. The fact that this film is so successful is the clarion call for all, viz. that our civilization is over.

"The Hangover" is emblematic of our HD/ADD Twitter instant text world. Comedic particle board. Composite morsels of nothing that we ingest and/or transmit. The Hangover is Exhibit A in the trial of our century, viz. the murder of humor. This treatment is a predigested ort to the demented dolt who is duped by the delusion that he's hip. The pervert, the ne'er-do-well. This is to whom The Hangover is directed. The constantly-capped, cutely-chapeaued Judah Friedlander freak. You know, the guy in the office who's a loser, a joke, a waste of flesh. The guy who tries to wrap his worthlessness in the cloak of hip or alternative. The rebel without a clue. The cat who waits for the ghost of Kerouac to kick in. The loser. The freak. That's to whom this fetid film is directed.

The Hangover is the clarion call. It sounds the klaxon. It heralds the unraveling of our intellectual quilt. No wonder we can't write, think, speak. Have you noticed how so many kids today mumble nonsensically? Where art thou, Demosthenes? But no. They're "kewl." They don't need no stinkin' rules. No grammar. They're entitled.

It's over, folks.

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