Devon and I were watching "Bridesmaids," and it was so bad I had to walk away and listen from another room. As Devon noted, I have a problem with displaced embarrassment. I can't groove on movies where I'm expected to laugh at terrible things happening to people. That's why I'm the only person in America who hated "The Office." My other objection was with Hollywood's hard-on for movies about lonely hot chicks who pine after dickholes. I didn't buy it on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," either, where I was expected to believe that Sarah Michelle Gellar couldn't get a date. Maybe that's true in TV high schools, where everyone is 24 years old and smoking hot, but in real life, kids look like this.
Dear movie chicks: You are hot. You have this problem only so average-looking and ugly women can relate. If you didn't bathe for a year and brushed your teeth with dog poo, you'd still have to beat them off with a cattle prod. And that would only make you hotter.
Devon said he knows a few hot women who have had this problem, but I questioned his judgment when he claimed that I look like Kristen Wiig in that scene where she's primping in her panties and bra. That's just crazy talk.
Not that I don't appreciate the flattery, but I'm all, "Dude, you don't have to bullshit me. I'm ALREADY having sex with you."
I was going to end this blog entry there, but then Devon came over, trying to be all sweet. It was like a movie scene. He leaned over me as I as sitting in my chair. I looked up and puckered my lips for smoochies, and he had a bronchitis-addled coughing fit right in my face.
A movie scene as written by Ben Stiller, I mean.