rudy, the movie is a soul charging tale of the typical middle-class goon who gets everything wrong, but has one goal, one vision. It chronicles this upward climb with the light hand of a master filmcrafter, literally creating a primal yearning within the viewer to be a part of the Notre Dame, nay, the Christi... err, Catholic family.

The central figure is a prototype for anyone who's ever had an impossible dream and followed their heart to birth it.

I dare anyone who calls themselves a man to not weep during the last 1 hour and 35 minutes of this film.

Weep, let the tears boom down on your chest as it swells full of the future, punch your woman in her not-big-enough tits, and go forth and upgrade.

Rudy,the person is quite eager to gobble up a big bowl of baby shit, with a smile.

Maybe if I took about half a piss drip to ignore the fact that who gives a fuck about your randomly beaten into your head goal, I'd come to the conclusion that the moral of the story is that it is OK to follow this abstract and twisted version of reality even when you will be doomed to the time after acheiving that goal.

Wait, I know, you can have a cameo in the story about you that's better than your real story. Wait, I know, you can then make pals with the director and be in his next straight to oddly new set of VHS tapes donated Salvation Army masterwork.

Just a dick.

winning is everything, everywhere. I am, therefore I win.

Do anything and there will be someone or something waiting to let you know that you have done so.

Every interaction is an opportunity for a contest, a contest that you will win.

Today I have won 17 things and that was only during the time and space that it took waking up and getting to work.

george walker bush's signature includes the number 2, the letter Z, and the profile of Bob Hope.

stopping the violence! increasing the peace! Or what the powers that be do to maintain rule.

Hot new reality television: "Stripped of One's Possessions!" We'll see how quickly the peace is increased when a dozen people from the lowest to the highest income brackets all compete for the sum of everyone's worth.

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made in china offers us a small glimpse not only into the product, but the person who entertains these obviously slipshod imitations of craftsmanship.

Labeling various sundries this way serves as confirmation that the owner of such an ungraciously economical and barely functioning object is quite careless about their life and does not value living it.

Classy Big Titted Mature Blonde reminds us that there is more than one way to win a fishing tournament.

goin' south has an ad shown sporadically on various cable channels. Typical television music CD affair, but how can one ignore a set which pulls off being so masculine without even a hint of homosexuality.

The title a clever reference to not merely the style of music but also eating pussy. This is probably a diversion away from the fact that one of the featured groups, The Band, hails from the heartland of Canada.

If you had any doubt of the pussy eating reverie of this release, the female archetype posited on the cover has the pants already unbuttoned and is rather humbly covering up what appears to be a burn-victim's face, although wincing.

This is crucial, as who wants to be goin' south on any burn victim, though I suppose they'd supply the lubrication with whatever skincare products they require.

For visually catering to anyone who's ever wanted to fuck a faceless burn-victim on a huge American flag backdrop while dangling the balls of man rock, there is no doubt in my spleen that this is

jack involves a Gollywood tradition of taking a subject with an infinitely interesting topic and molesting it in the closet, intimidating it to never tell anyone about their little secret.

The premise here is of someone who has progeria coping with the accelerated aging.

Someone with the backbone to explore every aspect of it, Chuck Palahniuk, offered a version of this which involved a man at a home for the elderly who dressed like a teenager luring heart-on-sleeve housewives into the idea that he's really 18 and needs to fully experience life before he dies. Of course they comply with all sorts of debauchery where he reveals that he's actually 13 or that he really ended up being 83. Who knows!

This, however, involves things like breaking a tree-house, being embarrassed buying Penthouse, farts and burps. The confusion is only compounded when Jack attempts to court J-Lo's ass but when an infinitely hotter Fran Drescher throws herself at him he acts like a chimpanzee.

Fortunately for the audience, they saved the straw that broke for the final scene where we see Jack hobbling around with grey hair and teeny bopper shoes, like an old racist black-and-white cartoon of Rip Van Winkle, only missing the beard.

I invite anyone to research what the shriveled, nightmarish Frank Oz rejects which are those afflicted with progeria actually look like on Google images.

But first, the gavel sounds:

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