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Brain to Self: These are just to complete your Wonder Woman Halloween outfit. You won't wear them for any other reason.

Self to Brain: PFFF! Bitch, I'm wearing this shit to clean the house! Hi-YA!!!

me: i'm putting my lottery plan in effect today. all i gotta do is win. then i get $370 million dollars, and we can retire to brazil. with a bunch of male models that we purchase from janice dickenson.

piehole: ive always WANTED my own models! can we keep them in stables?

me: i was thinking we'd just provide couches with plastic on them. but stables would be better. with pillows instead of hay. that'd be fun to play in. we could even have a plastic ball pit. seriously, if i win $370 million dollars you pretty much have to be my personal assistant. we could hire stephen hawking to homeschool your son.

piehole: dude. even just for the computerized voice.

me: that's ridiculous money, right there. it would be silly to not do retardedly irresponsible things with it. in fact, when i win $370 million, we can have a private jet with "retardedly irresponsible spending" airbrushed on the side.

piehole: ooh. can we have john travolta be our pilot? and maybe seats made out of baby seal? with rhinestones?

me: yes. and, i want throw pillows filled with spotted owl feathers. also, i want my bed to have those tiny 7" flatscreen monitors at every possible position so when i'm lounging, all i have to do is turn my head and i'm watching tv. or! no! i don't even have to turn my head! that's what i meant! the tvs are everywhere so that i don't have to strain!

piehole: HEH... YOU KNOW, [CO-WORKER] ONCE WORKED ON A HOUSE IN MONTANA WHERE THE BED WAS ON A PLATFORM THAT ROTATED! SO YOU COULD EITHER LOOK AT THE TV OR THE VIEW... JUST TURN THE BED!

me: meh. too "under 50 millionaire"

piehole: OOOH! WE CAN BUY THE WORLDS MOST EXPENSIVE HOUSE IN THE YELLOWSTONE CLUB! LETS BUY TWO!

me: the second house is only for our pets. people aren't allowed in. i really don't want pets, though. let's just get ponies. and the ponies can live in the second house. and when we get bored we can finance the release of a sequel to our hit documentary, called: "Pony House 2: Even More Horsin' Around"

piehole: HEY, MAYBE WE SHOULD JUST GET my little ponies! AND NOT real PONIES! NO HORSEY SMELL! PLUS WE CAN HAVE A MY LITTLE PONIES HOUSE!

me: or... talking robot ponies. pink metallic talking robot ponies. and the documentary can be called "Mrs. Ed: Back From The Barn." or: "Prancin' 2: Electric Pony-loo."

Have I seen this movie yet? No. Yes!

Am I going to? What, are you kidding? Four words for you: greased up naked Gerard Butler. (Wait... that's five words. Oh, who has time to COUNT? For God's sake, there's half-naked men in capes going on!)

It doesn't even have to have a plot. It could just be a bunch of dudes yelling to techno music and I would still post "OMG BEST MOVIE EVER!" to as many dorky message boards as I can find.

I mean, I liked TROY. Who am I trying to fool by playing it coy?

And since [SPOILER!] historically, all 300 soldiers died, and I'm assuming that's the ending here, too, I'm going to go ahead and propose a sequel. It takes place in hell with their reanimated souls dancing around in fire and screaming "YEAH, GET SOME!!" (And no, that doesn't even have to make sense, either. As long as they still have those abs and their facial hair is all kempt.) In hell they would be even sweatier, too, so, bonus!

Projected box office take on "300 Again: This Time, Satan's Got The Problem": 300 billionty gajillion.

UPDATE: I can't really post coherent thoughts about a movie I only half-comprehended. I was a bit distracted. In addiction to pectoral overload there were a lot of boobies, too. But don't take a guy who enjoys historical accuracy. If you do, it's all "Where did the giant elephants come from? How did they saddle a rhinocerous? Why are they fighting in their underwear? THIS MOVIE IS DUMB!"

Is there anything more depressing than when a comedian dies?

Perhaps a clown with cancer. But then again, Stephen King never wrote a novel about how a stand-up comic goes on a rampage, scarring many people from ever really enjoying Comedy Central again. (Again, Stephen, if you're reading this, "The [Mic] Stand" is another book idea I'll never write, so don't steal it just because I'm lazy.)

God, I haven't been this bummed out since Mitch Hedberg's untimely death.

It's supposed to just be the songs I like, but for some reason finetune included "other songs I might like," which of course aren't really songs I like at all. For instance, U2. But anyway.

There are two types of people in this world: People who barely stayed awake during this movie, and fucking liars.

(Alternate Review: This film does NOT go to 11.)

In my constant need for monetary compensation, I would like to announce that my whoring the site out with ads has brought me a revenue of a whopping $5.73.

I will wisely invest this money. Probably in comic books. (Which we all know is like a U.S. Savings Bond, only with pictures of hot chicks in spandex and vinyl.)

Remember when I was so stoked to be getting Wonder Woman boots?

Well, they arrived. And in a shocking turn of events, they don't mother fucking fit.

And in an even more shocking (and angering!) turn of events: The company I bought them from won't exchange them for the next bigger size.

See, this was why I needed the boots... was to give ass whoopings at the drop of a hat. (Or a tiara.) Now I'm left with boots that pinch and don't quite zip up all the way over my giant leg muscles.

(By the way, I have plenty of pairs of knee-high boots, and all of them zip up just fine. So, what's up, makers of the Wonder Woman boot? You'd think "big calf muscles" would be something you'd be wary of when making boots that are similar to Wonder fucking Woman's, you know, she's that tall chick with the big leg muscles and the spangled underpants?)

At first the startling low-quality production on this mockumentary will make you weep. And then Rob Corddry shows up and you cry some more for Correspondents of Daily Shows Past.

Then Rob Riggle shows up and kicks out the mother fucking jams, man. I mean, he saves the whole movie. Then you weep for how brilliant it was even though it appeared to have been shot on that handi-cam your mother had back when you were in the fifth grade, you know, the one that weighed eleven hundred pounds and had a two bit resolution. (And the only sound the built in microphone ever picked up was wind.)