Yoga Hosers
Basing your decisions as President of the United States on a crystal ball-fondling psychic leads to voodoo economics, the Iran-Contra scandal and ridicule both foreign and domestic. Basing a marriage on a crazy, weekend, Vegas fling leads to a Mexican divorce and, most likely, at least one STD.
Basing an entire goram movie on a throwaway line from your riffing-with-your-stoned-best-friend podcast leads to Yoga Hosers, and trust me, you'd rather endure a political pantsing, a painful divorce and a raging case of herpes than to have to sit through even 10 minutes of this shitassathon.
Fuck you, Kevin Smith, you fucking fuck!
I've been with you since the very beginning, naying the naysayers all along the way. I celebrated your Cinderella story, bootstrap, breathrough hit Clerks. I stood by you when you caved to the critic and apologized for Mallrats, you giant pussy. I swam against the stream of haters when I boldly noted that Jersey Girl did not, in fact, suck hippo balls. I even defended your cop out directing Cop Out.
I was probably the only motherfucker in the known universe outside of your immediate friends and family who - even after the cinematic terrorism of Red State and Tusk - still looked forward to Yoga Hosers.
Well, you know what? You can stick a fork in me (and try not to eat me, Jabba), because I'm fucking done.
I'm not sure if you're pulling a Uwe Boll tax scam and purposefully made Yoga Hosers to lose money, but it sure does smell a lot like you set course for Fail and punched the Warp 30 button.
You made a chick Clerks plus horror and minus humor, personality and heart. You cast your and Johnny Depp's admittedly pretty but community-theatre-talented-at-best daughters in the Randal and Dante roles.
You brought one of the worst parts of Tusk back with Depp's Quebecois Woody Allen impression, Guy Lapointe. You made the entire movie a running Canada joke, but the only punchlines you could come up with were that Canadians say "aboot" and "eh" every third word and really like hockey.
You figured out a way to make Bratzis, foot-tall Nazi bratwursts (all played by you, no less), as funny as a positive AIDS test. You had the bad guy do impressions of everyone from Pacino to Adam West for no fucking reason at all, and you made his master plan to kill all the critics. You fucking crybaby.
You released your "movie" in something like 10 theaters so no one could see it. Then you made finding it on DVD or streaming video like a game of Where's fucking Waldo.
And at the end of the credits you threaten to bring the 15-year-old, clueless, Canadian clerks named Colleen (yes, both of them) back for a sequel called Moose Jaws. Not even Moose Knuckles? You're dead to me.
November 25, 2016 New video release review rather than new theatrical release review because see above.