
That way when my wife drags me down to the impossible to find - art house/ lesbian bookstore/ poet’s corner/yoga hut/ movie theater to watch this slop, I don’t have to strain my eyes in an attempt to make like I’m following along. There is nothing worse than having to watch and read some hairy armpit European skank profess her love for a dead ringer for Jean Claude Van Damme minus the acting ability.
Better yet Magnus, forget shooting the movie in the first place. Just release your thoughts in a book, this way I will be left out of the whole mess. The wife can read your story whenever she wants and I’m not forced to sit through three plus hours of cinematic hell.
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