Unfortunately, the digital revolution has made it cheap enough for any television producer with a million bucks lying around to shit out their own bowel-shaking masterpiece and distribute it to unsuspecting theatre chains across the country.
There was once a time when terrible, low-budget sex comedies were relegated to the netherworld of late-night / early morning Skinemax –style cable channels, never to oppress theatrical audiences with their terrible dialogue and lack of plot. Unfortunately, the digital revolution has made it cheap enough for any television producer with a million bucks lying around to shit out their own bowel-shaking masterpiece and distribute it to unsuspecting theatre chains across the country. Such is the case with Miss March.
Centered around two complete losers, one of whom falls (literally) into a coma and comes out years later to discover his virginal teen girlfriend is now a Playboy centerfold, Miss March has absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. When Loser #1 accidentally stabs his girlfriend in the face with a fork during fellatio – yes, I just typed that – he kidnaps Loser #2 to go on a cross-country drive to the Playboy mansion while being pursued by vengeful firemen. Oh but wait, it gets better – along the way they run into their friend, Horsedick Dot MPEG. Yes, that’s his actual name. Yes, he is a rapper. No, he doesn’t actually have a penis.
And neither does this movie. Or rather, this movie has no balls. For a production that might as well have been titled ‘Playboy Pays For A 1.5 Hour Infomercial On Playboy’ and which actually stars The Hef in the most awkward bluescreen moment since Who Framed Roger Rabbit, there are almost no titties to be had in this movie. Nature’s greatest gifts to man get perhaps 30 seconds of total screen time, and put in no appearance at all during any of the mansion sequences. We DO get treated to a ‘high school girlfriend’ who looks so old I am surprised that dust didn’t fly off of the screen and into my Big Gulp every time she swiveled her head 360 degrees, ‘Death Becomes Her’-style. Oh, and we also get a dude with a STENT in his BALLSACK. TWO STENTS. IN HIS BALLSACK.
Directors Zach Cregger and Trevor Moore cast themselves in the lead Loser roles, which begs the question as to why they also didn’t write in any orgy sequences or scenes that didn’t involve genital mutilation. I guess that will have to remain one of life’s great mysteries, as I don’t think I would ever be able to ask them what they were thinking when they created this abomination of a film without carving my questions into their flesh with a rusty steak knife. Avoid this film at all costs.
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