Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering. — Fyodor Dostoyevsky
IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE CHIMICHANGAS! — Adam Sandler as Jill, “Jack and Jill”
I am (REDACTED) miserable.
If Dostoyevsky is right, Joe Brown and I are passionately in love with suffering at the hands of Happy Madison productions. That is the takeaway I am getting from Adam Sandler Month, which is somehow more awful of an experience than any of the times we reviewed “Fuller House” — a show so foul it actually made my emotional breakdown following my divorce four years ago worse.
And we are only halfway through.
Look, I know I was a miserable prick before this month, and will continue to be one once this month is over. But this theme month has brought out the worst in me. It has made me feel depressed, anxious, tired and hungry all in one confusing mix of emotions. I watch these movies and I feel dead inside. A swirling void of numbness that carries me from one moment to the next, with muscle memory the only thing making me seem like a normal human being.
All of this because of Adam (REDACTED) Sandler.
I once joked on the question of what the hell happened to Adam Sandler. My conclusion was maybe he just got lazy from comfort. Living his life with little effort or care. The money keeps rolling in so why should he rock that particular boat.
Well, this month has opened my eyes to a very incredible truth: I think Adam Sandler not only does not give a flying (REDACTED), I think he has set out to make the worst pieces of shit cinema ever. An unholy drive within his being that pushes him to make every fart joke longer, more disgusting and, if in a bathtub, more and larger gas bubbles.
Not because he thinks it is funny. No, the man who gave us “Happy Gilmore” knows what is funny and what is not. I am sure he looked at that bathtub and the giant flatulence-soap bubble and knew it was not funny. He knew someone was going to see that and feel a sudden dull pain in their forehead from annoyance. A dull pain that grows ever more sharper and hurtful as the movie continues to unfold before their eyes.
I believe Adam Sandler senses that pain, and it fills the empty crevice within his being where his soul was once housed. But only temporarily. No, that brief sense of wholeness vanishes, causing Sandler to rally the troops of David Spade, Kevin James and Rob Schneider to plot the next Happy Madison production that will once again briefly soothe Sandler’s emptiness and briefly employ the others.
This, to me after watching these abominations, is the only thing that makes any sense. Because no sane person, no person with a basic grasp on sanity, society and how jokes work would ever think making this kind of crap would be a good idea.
This love affair with suffering has become toxic.