Sex And The City Pretty Much Sucks The Fat One

The first review of the Sex And the City movie is out, and it’s everything I expected from a movie, and less:

There may be a problem with a film when a narrator constantly tells you the meaning of what you have just seen, gift-wrapping each scene with a moral.

There may be a problem with characters who shop with such conviction while the audience looks up from the trough of a credit crunch.

There may be a problem with stretching Sex and the City into a two hour and twenty minute film – it can feel like a never ending dinner party.

It sounds like the type of movie where halfway through, I reach into my pocket, pull out my 12″ buck knife and slice my own head off.

The guy that reviewed the movie admits that the women in the theatre were weeping and cheering and laughing and possibly masturbating to a picture of me, but that seems slightly unlikely.

Who shouldn’t see this movie? Anyone with less than two x chromosomes.

Who should see this movie? Bitter, crusty malcontents that have low social skillz, a thin grasp on reality, and people who say shit like, “You go girl!”

Or, it could be really good

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