I’ll be honest, folks, Kevin Smith news bores me a bit. I used to think he was charming as a person and that some of his movies were sort of okay, but ever since he started smoking weed and adopted this forced folksy shtick of his, I don’t feel strongly about him one way or another. BUT, one thing I do feel strongly about is commenter Chareth Cutestory and his white-hot Kevin Smith hatred, which is so pure and beautiful that I let him write up this latest bit of Kevin Smith news himself. Enjoy.
Are you sitting down? Well hold on to your Jort loops because Kevin Smith, his Macbook Pro just out of reach, grasped his Twitter stick in his sausage fingers and, breathing heavily, methodically tapped out the following:
“Since HIT SOMEBODY is now gonna be a mini-series, yes – that leaves room for a new final flick before I retire from directing feature films.” – @ThatKevinSmith
OH HO HO. What’s this now? Giving up so soon after changing the game with Red State? A film you attempted to finance like some sort of dime store P.T. Barnum? After all that, you’re hanging up your leather duster? Or rather dropping it on the floor since raising your arms to coat rack-level has become a sad spectacle?
And what, pray tell, will be your swan song?
“So with the HIT SOMEBODY shift, the minute Jeff Anderson signs on, my last cinematic effort as a writer/director will be CLERKS III. – @ThatKevinSmith
Oh, well that’s just great. FAN-F*CKING-TASTIC. Because what better way to leave the party you had no business attending in the first place than to drop trou and rip a hot, wet fart into the Velveeta cheese dip on your way out. The Velveeta cheese dip that you brought.
Because that’s what your films are, Kevin. Amidst a carefully set table of fine charcuterie and crudités, your contribution to the party is nothing but cheap, fart-laden fromage. The gross imitation at which other partygoers stare askance as they reach for another slice of dry-cured salami. And just because the host’s stoned teenage stepson wanders in and dips a finger into it, don’t you dare think for a second that everyone enjoys it. I picture you now. Standing in the corner, beaming, thinking that you’ve got ‘em all fooled.
Well you haven’t fooled me, fat man. Your contribution to this party sucks. And as you leave, no doubt turning sideways as you attempt to angle your sweaty heft through the threshold, the party will go on without you. Sure, someone may catch a whiff of those cheddar farts you left, but then they’ll return to talking about literally anything else.
So snoochie boochies, Kevin. Snoochie boochies forever. May they hang your hockey jersey from the rafters. Rafters that will no doubt buckle under the sheer weight of it, killing several people below.