Oh my GOD, being a woman at the movies is so embarrassing (reminds me of being in the workplace—am I right, male executives?). Say I attend a woman movie on a rainy Sunday night. Right off the bat, I'm forced to sit through that expensive-ass Stella Artois commercial wherein the fussy bartender leaves an entire car of train passengers stranded on a trestle, just so he can pour a perfectly ordinary glass of beer and still slop foam all down the sides. POINTLESS. Thank you for completely screwing up the rail system of your coastal European land, bartender with Big Ideas. (That doesn't technically have to do with my ideas about lady justice—I'm just really fucking sick of watching it.)

Next appears a trailer for Nights in Rodanthe—from the people who convinced you that you're anatomically obligated to weep over The Notebook—in which we are all forced to participate in the Getting-Back of Richard Gere's Groove (hint: I think it took a dark stroll down Diane Lane's Diane Lane). Gross. And then, an advertisement for a movie "about women" entitled The Women. The Women illustrates women in each stage of our womanly wominanity—from the vapid hot bitch of youth, to the screeching Cathy cartoon of 27, and beyond, to Cloris Leachman, to dead. Siiiiigh. This is my future. These are my choices. This is what I am supposed to enjoy watching.

And, at last, the main course: The House Bunny. Anna Faris, an estimable comedienne whom I am on the verge of never defending again, plays Shelley Darlingson, a dumbass nudie model kicked out of the Playboy mansion for being over the hill (the aforementioned 27 and beyond). With "nowhere to go"—WHY DON'T YOU HAVE ANY MONEY? SURELY THEY PAID YOU FOR THOSE PHOTOS OF YOUR BOOBS!—she takes a job as housemother in a dying sorority of social rejects (i.e., pretty girls in ugly hats).

The only way the Zeta house can keep its charter is—obviously—to get some hair extensions and water bras, stop being a pack of socially retarded shaved Sasquatches, and get busy losing those pesky back braces, virginities, and personalities.

Here are some examples of the caliber of joke that you shall find in The House Bunny: "This is not a brothel," says a mean rival housemother. "A brothel? Oh, I'm not looking to make soup!" replies Shelley!

"I manage a nursing home," says an area male. "Oh, that's so great you give nurses a place to live!" replies Shelley!

"You're too smart! Boys don't like girls who are too smart," says Shelley. "We endorse this idea without irony!" replies The House Bunny!

In the end, the girls of Zeta house reflect upon what they've learned: "So, we'll be half Shelley and half who we really are." "Hmm... maybe 60 percent Shelley!" Wink! recommended