Hollywood Hates You, Part 79

« March 2006 »

Memo to Larry The Cable Guy: STOP DESTROYING AMERICA.

Why does it always have to be the art films that destroy America? The gay cowboys and the elaborate tales of murky foreign policy? Art films can't destroy America, because America is like a dog.

Calculus can't destroy a dog. A dog sees some calculus, and it makes no impact on him whatsoever, good or bad. Calculus is simply beyond the reckoning of the dog, so the dog ignores it in favor of something, anything, that smells more like testicles. Movies like Syriana are the calculus to the dog that is America. We don't see it, and if we do, we don't understand it. At the end of the day, we barely remember its existence.

Give that same dog a big heaping pile of feces, however, and you've got a problem. Because the dog doesn't know any better, and the dog'll lap up that big pile of poo like it was kibble brulee with a port wine reduction. And that's not healthy for the dog. The dog gets sick. But it's too stupid to learn, and it keeps eating shit until it dies.

Which is why "Larry The Cable Guy: Health Inspector" is a hell of a lot more likely to destroy America than whatever Tim Robbins is working on right now. I mentioned this celluloid mark of the beast a couple of weeks back, but now that its release is upon us, I have to reiterate what an awful, awful idea it is on every level, lest you, in a moment of grits-fueled weakness, go see it.

I mean, just the title! He's a cable guy! He's a health inspector! He's a floor wax! He's a dessert topping! There's a reason neither Jim Varney nor Carrot Top* were dumb enough to give their characters a profession. It's creatively limiting. We, as the audience, don't know if the cable guy becomes a health inspector due to some vagary of fate, or if he just occupies some kind of Heisenberg employment state, only collapsing into a vocation when we observe the film.

Plus, let's face it. Larry The Cable Guy is the guy the other Blue Collar Comics keep around so that they look like intellectuals. They're never gonna let Bill Engvall join Mensa, but standing next to a guy screaming "Git-R-Done" for three years practically makes Engvall an honorary member of the Algonquin Round Table.

I don't even know what R is, or why it's gitting done. His schtick is so stupid, it defies comprehension. It's like the time I watched Leonard Part Six on a dare. Usually, with bad comedy, you can at least identify the charred corpses of jokes as they pass by, stinking up your living room. But these things don't even have the dental records of jokes. They're some kind of Pavlovian glossolalia**, and since I've never fucked a pig, I'm not conditioned to respond the way the target audience is.

The commercials are exactly what you'd expect. Titties, sushi joke, catchphrase, opens Friday. If you think this is funny, you're part of the problem. If you buy a ticket, you're part of the problem. Call me an elitist if you must, but if this fucktard who couldn't have passed the entry exam for Hee Haw has the number one movie in the country come Monday, then we're in worse shape than I think we are. And we all know what kind of shape I think we're in.

*I had a great gag all lined up where I'd use Carrot Top's real name there, and tell you to look it up, because nobody knows Carrot Top's real name. But then I found out Carrot Top's real name is Scott Thompson, and you'd all think I meant the Kids In The Hall guy, and then the screaming would start. Fucking Carrot Top. The man can ruin a joke just by being in it.

**OK, I admit it. I wanted to be the only person in the history of mankind to use the word "glossolalia" while talking about Larry The Cable Guy.