
Forgive me, loyal readers, but I do not believe it possible to suppress this rage coursing through my veins. Kevin Smith has robbed me of my identity. And well folks. That is everything. Zack and Miri Make A Porno is an Apatow picture -- right down to the obsession with bodily functions and the barely talented Seth Rogan.
My plan, my career arc if you will, was to work up to the pornographic film after notching an impressive cache of increasingly vulgar features.
The "porno flick" was to be my Magnum opus. And you, Mr. Smith, jump in from obscurity from that shameful place directors go after they make a film like Jersey Girl, and just steal it from me. Without putting in the time.
What happened to grungy slackers and overwriting? That was you. My slackers are of the post Y2K ilk -- undersexed but products of the reality TV era where sex and stupidity is celebrated and revered. That is their paradox. Do your slackers even have a pathos?
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I can not idly sit back and watch these abuses continue. For far too long, I’ve passively ignored your ignorance, your wanton disregard for literary precision. But as a scribe, nay, a demigod of diction, I can not allow this butchery of my craft to go on a moment longer. For the last god damn time the gooch is not synonymous with the taint.
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