Reviewing Jack the GIant Slayer Without Having Seen It

by admin on March 1, 2013

I suppose the cover of the inevitable porn parody "Jack His Giant Member" will appear almost exactly like this, except they’ll spell it “cumming” and the bean stalk will be replaced with some behemoth rod.

I suppose the cover of the inevitable porn parody “Jack His Giant Member” will have a cover almost exactly like this one, except they’ll spell it “cumming” and the bean stalk will be replaced with some behemoth’s rod.


I love “reimagined” art. There’s nothing quite like making a movie out of a board game or rapping over 20 percent of a song and releasing it as a new track that announces to the world Americans now find creativity “faggy”. (As an aside, “reimagined” is my favorite make-believe word since “electronica”, which was invented when record execs decided to sell techno to the masses without that word’s messy connotations of poppers and bugchasing.)

So you can imagine my unbridled joy when I heard a movie was getting made about a story I heard to death during my childhood. I don’t even remember liking “Jack and the Beanstalk”: It was just something easy your mom could read to you so she could get on with her night. (“Eh, magic beans…a stalk…the giant…look, I really need to go and give your dad a tugjob so he won’t leave the family. Because if he does, you can kiss that bike you wanted for Christmas goodbye.”)

What’s more, the film stars Nicholas Hoult, the latest British heartthrob to send young ladies a’soakin’ their panties. Seriously, fuck these limey actors with their light eyes, wiry physiques and disarming accents. How is a Yankee slob like me supposed to compete? That showboat’s dick probably sings opera with a three octave range just to drive the point home. It makes me feel like a bitter black broad seeing all the good brothers get snatched up by white girls.

If you watch Jack the Giant Slayer, it better be for one of two reasons: You need 90 minutes to occupy your children so you can text the guy you’re cheating on your husband with in peace, or you’re dating a mental deficient and the assisted living facility she resides in won’t let you take her to R rated films because they cause her to wet the bed. I’m not even sure the second option is real. Can you visit psych wards and date their retards? Are they dynamite in the sack because their vaginas have retard strength, too? That massive down syndrome Popeye chin is 100% pure bonercide, but maybe you can put a bandana around the lower half of her face and role-play that you’re having sex with an olde tyme bank robber? Why do I feel a light bulb went on over the heads of my entire male readership? You all disgust me.

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