bill-swift - October 13, 2010
I must have pissed off the gods in my last life. Here I am, in hour four of a Murder She Wrote marathon, covered in Cheeto dust, while Len effing Wiseman gets to frolic on sandy shores with Kate Beckinsale. Just look at her. She seems utterly at home on her hands and knees, working that shovel, doesn't she?
Why couldn't I have been born a director who exclusively makes shitty movies? Maybe then I could have landed me a perfect specimen like Kate. Hell, I'd have settled to come back as a grain of sand that gets wedged into her holiest of holies. Karma's a bitch. Enjoy.
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