Just Go With It
40 minutes. That's how much of Adam Sandler's new shit-fest, "Just Go With It," that I made it through before I was forced to gnaw off my own arm and escape from the theatre with my sanity intact. Unlike James Franco, I received no attention from the Academy for my willingness to perform a self-amputation in order to escape a terrifying situation. Instead, I am left with a lifetime of nightmares and the grim realization that I must now pleasure myself with "the stranger" for the rest of my days.
Sometimes when a movie is as bad as "Just Go With It," I like to extrapolate what might have happened to the characters had I elected to remain inside the theatre for the duration and endure the type of brain injuries typically reserved for the opponents of Mike Tyson who weren't smart enough to stay down after the second round.
For example, would Jennifer Aniston's incredibly unsympathetic character ever have actually married Sandler after pretending to be his wife, or would she have gone back to her job as a receptionist, because according to this movie women can only be teachers, whores, or service workers. Would she have continued to age onscreen at a rate comparable only to the Holy Grail scene in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," or would she have immersed herself in a vat of Oil of Olay between takes? Can she actually turn people to stone just by looking at them, or am I mixing her up with Katherine Heigl?
Would Sandler's character have continued to operate on plastic surgery patients in a work shirt and jeans, or would he have eventually copped to the fact that he didn't actually have a medical degree and gone to jail for disfiguring nearly everyone he has ever touched? Likewise, would the movie have explained how he performed a nose job on himself – something Michael Jackson probably couldn't have even done, despite his extensive rhinoplasty experience?
I also wonder about how many members of Sandler's Circus of Retarded Actors would have exchanged blowjobs for walk-on roles in the former comedian's latest entry into his career's downward spiral. I imagine that Rob Scheider must have worn a bikini at least once, maybe twice during Sandler's hinted-at trip to Hawaii, perhaps while displaying a classy amount of bush, perhaps not. Maybe there was a shark attack scene where Scheider is swallowed by the gaping maw of a Great White, only to be spat out back onto the shore, mangled and bloodied but ultimately, unpalatable to even nature's least discrete eater.
Or maybe none of this happened and the entire world exists only inside my mind, and when I close my eyes, you all disappear. I would love to think that I have that kind of power over Rob Scheider. Or any kind of power, really. Like the power to stop eating these delicious Doritos.
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