Review
Fat, gray onanist Rogan turns his belly button into a foul spewpipe, "riffing" on one non-sequitur after another as he desperately seeks to talk his way clear of this pig offal of a script (by once-brilliant "novelist of the future" Jay "Gatsby" McInerney). Former Michael Jordan bodyguard and sidekick JayChow hangs on to Rogan's side blubber like a homesick remora.
What exactly are we to make of what probably once looked like a "can't miss" idea before the likes of casting Godfather "Lyn" Stallmaster and evil supergenius Michael Ovidz put their morganetic spell upon it? Imagine a carpet the size of the Astrodome made of upturned mouths all screaming their agony in unison, only to be met by a hailstorm of Wilf Errol's special "menudo" stewed in the flopsweat of a hundred Zach Galfianikakiliases. Congratulations, you're a tenth of the way there.
Leave EVERYONE home, and enjoy the simple pleasures of Mr. Tony Randall. You'll thank me.
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