The Anti-Viagra

So I have a friend who, despite recent developments, has actually been a really cool person for the last few years. We talk, we laugh, we make frequent sexu--okay, I make frequent sexual comments to her and she doesn't hit me for it. All things considered, pretty solid dynamic. I'd probably do just about anything for her, shy of putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. After heeding her recommendation that I rent and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall, however, I kind'a feel like I should.
Five minutes into this movie, I knew how it was going to end. Ten minutes into the movie, I wasn't sure I wanted to find out if I was right. Twenty minutes into it, I shit you not, I swear I was convinced that I'd never have a full erection again. This movie obviously wasn't written to attract a male audience. I'll admit I laugh when someone gets hurt as hard as the next guy, probably even harder, but seriously, how many times can you cringe through some jackass crying over some celebrity bitch without wanting to reach through the screen, pull the actor out of it and scream into his grotesquely assymetrical face? "You tool! You mother! Fucking! Tool! How the hell can you have even a sliver of self-respect after allowing yourself to be portrayed as everything that every man in the fucking world fears his son will grow up to be!"
I know, I know, it's just acting, right? Just a fun time in front of the screen watching people react humorously to unlikely situations. If that's what you're thinking, go fuck yourself. I've got a fucking cramp in my abs from keeling over in agony from watching this piece of shit. I don't give a rat fuck how popular the movie is. Y'know why it's popular? I'll tell you in one word. Women. More specifically, women who need to feel like they have ultimate power over the opposite sex. Women who need to feel important so badly that they'll drag their friends, and their friends' friends, and all the poor bastard boyfriends associated with each tier, to watch someone pretend to be a whiny little love sick bitch because his girlfriend is fucking someone else. Women who will repeat this over, and over, and over again, their egos getting blown up to the size of a stay at home soccer mom with a thyroid disorder, until they finally feel assured that they're holding the power because, hey, if they leave their current love interest for a retarded pop star, he'll go to Hawaii and make an ass of himself. It's how it happens in real life, right? Right?! Please God, just let me feel beautiful again!
Long story short, I'm actually gonna' take the financial hit and not return this movie to the Red Box I got it out of. Instead, I'm gonna' go down to the beach Sunday night, start a bonfire, and commit this God-awful disc to the subsequent blaze, for no other reason than I want it to experience the closest possible thing to Hell in case there is no such place for inanimate objects. Anyone who wants to take a stand against whiny emo bitchery, bring a six pack and join me. Anyone else, keep waiting patiently for the next ego bang. I hope your ass spreads so wide that the subsequent bedsores litter it's rotting flesh in such a way that it looks like the surface of the moon after being bombarded by nukes, you fucking sheep.