So I watched that goddamn doodoofeces Valentine's Day movie, and now I will never, ever love again, because the acute psychological torture caused me to retreat to a remote moonshine shack—like a human hermit crab (what would you call that?)—and my only friend here is this shard of mirror that I bicker with in my strange mountain-twin language (thanks for the autism, Garry Marshall!). But before we get into all that, did you guys watch the Super Bowl? Because I did! I watched the shit out of it! It happened before Valentine's Day turned me feral. Dicks.
Did you see the Super Bowl commercial with the beavers? It's about this beaver, see, and he plays the violin (WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?) out on his beaver stump in the swamp. But he wants more out of life, so he goes and gets his laptop (SEE ABOVE) and searches for "violinist" on Monster.com, and apparently they advertise for street-busker positions (NO, THEY DON'T!), so he heads to the big city, delights passersby in the subway station, auditions for a panel of sour-faced old white people, plays Carnegie Hall or some shit, and then begins an interspecies sexual relationship with a blond tramp who probably just wants to eat him and wear his skin for a hat. Okay. Now. Here is my issue. If you have achieved fame and fortune in this life, beaver, it's not because of Monster.com or because you are really, really good at fiddlin' (also, you're not)—it's because you're A FUCKING WILD FOREST CREATURE THAT SOMEHOW KNOWS HOW TO PLAY THE VIOLIN AND USE THE INTERNET. Guess what? If you are a magical beaver, you get to skip the audition process. In fact, I think you get to go straight to your permanent headlining gig at the FBI's underground desert X-files top-secret research bunker. Congratulations. I hope you like your opening act, alien autopsy.
Anyway, Valentine's Day is among the most offensive things I have ever seen, and I once saw a beaver try to have sex with a human woman. The "plot" goes thuswise: A bunch of boring, straight, really famous white people hang around and whine in Los Angeles. Ashton Kutcher loves Jessica Alba. Jennifer Garner loves Patrick Dempsey. George Lopez loves dishing sassy Latino wisdom. Queen Latifah loves dishing sassy black-lady wisdom. Gay people barely exist. When they do exist, they are sassy. Julia Roberts sits on a plane, Anne Hathaway has a huge mouth, Topher Grace is orange, Indian people are dancing cartoon turbans with legs, and this movie will make one billion doughlarz. There are so many famous people in it that each of them is on-screen for approximately four seconds. My friend said afterward, "Why couldn't they get rid of just one cast member and use that money to hire a decent writer?" Well, friend, that's because... because... wait... do you hear fiddlin'? Gotta go! Mine tub noo, seppy-ty tam! (That means "MAMA NEEDS A NEW BEAVERSKIN HAT" in feral twin!) I'm out.