Back in April we made a plea to you, the sentient beings of the universe, to do anything and everything within your power to stop Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer from making their next movie. Not that we were condoning violence of any kind – peace on earth, Obama for president and all that – and we fully understand that there’s been a (perhaps deserved) negative stigma surrounding “terrorism” ever since the Iraqis shot WMDs at the Twin Towers 8 to 10 years ago, I believe on 3-11, or perhaps 9-11, whichever one isn’t a crappy reggae-metal band they used to play on KROQ all the time; but come on people. Would a strategically placed pipe bomb have been too much to ask for? Don’t answer. Rhetorical question. Because Friedberg and Seltzer went ahead and made their stupid spoof movie, and YOU didn’t do squat about it involving pipe bombs or anything else. Hey – we wrote it about it on the internet. We did our part. But how about you, sentient beings of the universe? What did you do, besides sit around all day playing XBox360, eating Dreyer’s Dibs and applying RID to your scrotums? Okay, that was us too, but again, we already did that internet thing. We earned our 5 months of chill-time. What, were YOU too busy to poison the craft services table? Was there something on TV you just had to watch on the night you could’ve been firing rocket launchers at the Louisiana soundstage where Friedberg and Seltzer were shooting their latest abomination? Don’t answer. Again, rhetorical question, and violence is never the answer (unless you are Robocop, John McClane, or President of the USA. Then it’s cool).

Now I will admit: Friedberg and Seltzer did use a little subterfuge. They told us that their next movie was going to be a spoof of all those wacky Judd Apatow “tubby Jew” comedies, when in fact what they were really spoofing was — as the title of their film clearly indicates — DISASTER MOVIES. Thus they made a film which, as you’ll see from this trailer (hyperlinked, we’re not embedding that piece o’ schnitzel), includes such quintessential disaster films as Juno, Sex and the City, Hancock and of course Alvin and the Chipmunks. You know, disaster… mo… burp.

Okay, at least with regard to Alvin and the Chipmunks, one could make a case for it having been a disaster (hey Tal…) but clearly the Friedberg/Seltzer M.O. doesn’t include sticking to the premise which has been immortalized in the title of their own friggin’ film. Oh, I could go on and on about it — rant and rave about what hacks these guys are, about how they deserve to have their sex-bitties snipped off with pruning shears and fed to wild mountain goats while their families are boiled alive in the canola oil that would otherwise have been used to make the copious amounts of popcorn their mildly retarded, morbidly obese fan base will be dribbling all over their Insane Clown Posse shirts this coming weekend, when the aforementioned spoof of any and all genres of film except the one in the title opens in theaters nationwide – like every other two-bit snarky entertainment news blogger on the internet. But I won’t.

Because Friedberg and Seltzer aren’t to blame. Oh, they suck, don’t get me wrong. Zero talent. Complete hacks. But you know what? If the L.A. Lakers called me tomorrow, all 5 foot 9 inches and 153 pounds of me, all 30+ years 15 of which were spent smoking a pack a day of Marlboros of me – and asked me to be their starting power forward next season, to the tune of a $30 million/5-year contract, you think I’m going to say no? Yeah right! Especially since it’s the Lakers. Eff ‘em. I’d suck ass all over the Staples Center and laugh all the way to the bank. Which is exactly what Friedberg and Seltzer are doing. Just because they lack talent doesn’t mean they’re morons. Hey, I bet Einstein was a pretty crappy bass player, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have given his left spackle-satchel for the chance to fill Cliff Burton’s shoes in Metallica circa 1986.

No, I’m putting the blame squarely on YOU. Yes, YOU. Don’t look behind you. There’s no one standing there. I’m addressing YOU the person reading this screed RIGHT NOW. Odds are pretty good your name is James, or John, or Mary, or Chen if you happen to be reading this in China: YOU are to blame. YOU let this happen. But I’m going to promise you one thing right now, promise you from the bottom of my pitch-black heart like I promised Jamie Lou Morland in 9th grade when I told her I wasn’t going to cum in her mouth, or in her hair, or on her drapes, only this time I’m going to MEAN IT: If you go see Disaster Movie this weekend I will come to your house and KICK YOU IN THE BALLS.

HARD. And it’s going to hurt. But frankly, you deserve much worse. Frankly, I’m letting you off easy. Because you are the reason Friedberg and Seltzer keep making movies. You are the reason 99 out of every 100 feature films released in theaters are now a spoofs, remakes or sequels. You and your God-damned lack of standards, you and your Crom-forsaken lack of taste, you and your Obama-becursed developmentally disabled cultural palate have turned the once joyful experience of going to the movies into something closer akin to huffing paint, while smashing one’s frontal lobe into hummus with a claw hammer, while watching the Tyra Show, at the closing ceremonies of the Special Olympics. You, sentient beings of the universe, have gone full retard.

You won’t see me coming. You won’t hear me tippy-toeing across your living room. But you will know the moment my size-ten steel toe connects with your befouled-DNA-proliferating genitalia that I have kept my promise. That I have kicked you in the balls (or ovaries… don’t think I’ve forgotten about you Mary) really effing hard. And while you roll around on the floor, clutching your crotch and praying to whatever Bronze Age idiot god it is you pray to that the “POP!” sound you heard as my foot made contact was grandma’s oxygen tent giving out again, you’re gonna know, deep in your heart, that you had it coming.

So consider yourself warned, sentient beings of the universe. Consider yourself warned.

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