Hi Mom, it’s me.

Things aren’t as good as I hoped they’d be. I sit all day in mechanical reds and existential greens and fill my lungs with the things I’ve done.

I wish she was here.

Anyways, hope you have a good day.

A flick about as incompetent as a blind man reviewing a 3D movie. Points awarded for Tiny Tim’s performance - it was effective in the same way it’s effective to overhear your parents having a domestic in the next room. 

They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.

First there was Stanislavski. Then there was Carvey. 

Master of Disguise is a rare 80 minute glimpse into one man’s unfiltered, unadulterated, achingly disturbing lifestyle. The mimicry and deception he forces upon an unwittingly society runs as deep as any ocean. It’s as heartless as any sea.

A flick that demands the viewer to clutch tight the proverbial wheel with both hands while Dana Carvey sits in the backseat breaking hearts. 

Cried several times.

When the credits rolled I didn’t know whether to shit or wind my watch.

A flick that gave me a catastrophic case of the basketball jones. What? I said the basketball jones. I got the basketball jones, oh baby. Oooh, oh.

I’ll admit that I’m still bitter over the MonSTARS getting screwed out of a W in “Space Jam.”

That was horseshit. 

Not only was MJ’s entire team juicing so much they literally played the third quarter with syringes sticking out of their asses, but Mike had the audacity to then stretch his arm 47-feet for a game-winning half-court dunk.

Kiss my ass.