Hello again, and welcome to Chuck's Corner, where I take a short break from my unerring predictions and precise analyses to rant aimlessly about whatever's on my mind. This week's topic: the film "Just My Luck," starring Lindsay Lohan.
Yeah, I saw it. What of it? I thought it was going to be the triumphant return of the knockout redhead following her brief stretch of experimentation with hard drugs and questionable sexual behavior.
But we have to move on to the greater question that's been plaguing Chuck K -- namely, what jag wrote this fuckin thing and thought it was worthy of being the basis for an entire motion picture? Were they proud of it? Did they their jag family and friends?
I mean, really, who the fuck uses a plot device as thinly-layered and as fuckin useless as pure, unbridled (mis)fortune? Awesome -- a spoiled, rich brat has every single goddamn thing the world work for her while the unlucky average Joe, who in actuality is a steaming hot piece of man meat, waltzes along in life, completely aware and peculiarly accepting of the fates' complete disregard for his well-being. Worse yet, they pass the "luck" back and forth like a friggin tract infection by kissing one another, so they each can succeed in their "big moments." Jesus H. Christ, what a trite, painful piece of shit.
And don't even get me started on the end where they give their luck 'away' by kissing the 'poor, loveable' girl, who Lohan later snorted a line off of when they were turning tricks on street corner between takes, which causes their flight times to be inexplicably delayed for their dream getaway vacation or some shit. WE GET IT -- BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO THEM WHEN THEY DON'T HAVE THEIR 'LUCK,' as if it's this thing that you find on the fuckin shelf at Sears; you can stop beating us over the head with your cardboard attempt at a story. Plus, it's an airport. Have you ever dealt with TSA people and airlines? They don't give half a shit about who you are and what you do with your endless source of serendipity and good fortune -- pay your goddamn bag fees and that plane will be in the air whenever the hell they feel like. The real misfortune here is that the characters aren't struck by lightning right at the start of the film and that I paid around $8 to watch this festering log of cinematic shit.
And really Lohan? Why do you gotta tempt us with a potential return to glory, only to move to bigger and harder things like, I suspect, heroin. I dunno if it's the beer, or that I just scolded my mouth on a hot plate of perogies, but I have this sour taste of bile in my mouth watching you whittle away with your ugly blonde hair and that anorexic butch who appears to mercilessly beat you at night.
What's that? You'd still "tap that"? Well, whoop-dee-fuckin-doo, be my guest. You and Talbot can double-team her and then roam the streets of Philadelphia together, tagging every dried up, hideous hag that can walk on two legs until you get hepatitis via sexual osmosis. Let me know how that works out for you and how disturbing it is that Lohan's Boy George look-alike partner came along to pleasure herself why you were at it.
Basically, what it comes down to is this: you can't pass along intangible properties like sheer luck. We all know that you can only be granted a portion of greatness by locking lips with Sidney Crosby or by drinking eight fluid ounces of his sweat daily. So the movie "Just My Luck" and the jag who made it can both rot in hell. Free agency stuff coming soon, jags. Until then.