From across the globe we warned him via electronic correspondences, but Goldenfiddle Hogye worker #1065-2 Divad Q. Nead declined our alarm and forged ahead with his cash deposit into Will Smith’s wallet.

I recall P. Berg in a lonely Chicago Hope episode, walking out into fade with a bird whose name I’ve luckily defrag’d to save memory - something about Emma, the Paltrow version, and how his fiction boy isn’t gonna be watching it over plucking his recede in the mirror. Please, Jason Bateman doesn’t need another jump cutty, love-in a la Arrested D to hump us into thinking he’s some sort of Herzog centerpiece - the man killed in Teen Wolf Too - quipping “Give me a keg of beer” which is exactly the kind of pump-push trash I was looking for around 40 into this redux celluloid oops. And there was Edelstein, somehow my archangel with a piece about Charlize, how the spoiler’s too good for wallet moths in ACME cartoons, and I’m totally gonna flip when I find out she’s struck from her resume yet another Oscar gem sticker for this limp through CGI and darting eyes - did you see them Ji Won? or were you busy on yr double-love Korean theater seat - also the bees knees, pollenated - to see me ow! my way into the next 50 when I sure as hell coulda been at the pizza stand, moping to myself on how once W.Smith made me laugh, homie. Carelton couldn’t of saved P. Berg from bringing in the stereotype hobby horse and showing us all how to ride backwards like in the good porns. And I bought beer for this one too, Spence. Truly, truly I can offer The Kindgom as a piece of film, as opposed to shite, where I wanted Bateman to take a bullet. Tell me you didn’t, kid, tell me. It’s enough that I’m talkin’ straight on another work of Berg when I should be waxing on and off on this old paint version of Chris Reeve in Tights I. Where the good god almighty is Terry ‘Zod’ Stamp, mixing his final kill scene in The Limey with lines like “The whole planet Houston?” to make a real good villain just all the more, kitsch. Charlize, two more days in the valley and we’re going Downey on the horn, calling out all the cars on ourselves and plucking from this Orange Country nitemare, into a jumpsuit, a catsuit, either or where you belong, babe.