Switch To Silent, Please...

Before I stab you in the goddamn joy-biscuit with my Slush Puppy straw, you giggling little twerp.

To be perfectly honest bub, I don't really give a rolling fart in a flying tiara whether or not you think what's playing in front you is 'just a little silly' or 'not quite as lovely as that one with that girl in the rain with that boy with the beard and the Alzheimers.'

That's not the goddamn point, is it? It's a friggin' movie about One Man, On A Quest To Save The World, And Pomp The Hot Bird While Saving Said World. It's not supposed to be considered for anything more exciting than a Raspberry For Most Exciting Gaffer.

You walk in, you know it's going to be two hours of mindless escape from other bottle-fed boy tarts such as your self, and you lean back and wait for the part where The Hot Bird whips her kit off in the name of art.

You don't walk in, fiddle and faff with your facking Nokia Doodly Doo Bing Boingly Boingle Bluetoothed P.O.S. and irritate the living shit out of me and every other person with normal hearing the whole way through the movie, squealing like a small-orificed fart and gabbling to some fag hag called Hayley.

You just don't, you mincing, lisping, greasy haired git. It's the way of the world.

So stuff you, clown. I'm trying throw jelly babies at seat 3H.