The Ice Bucket Challenge bugs the shit out of me. First, charities need money, not hot dogs who videotape themselves. If that selfies were valid currency, teenage girls would rule the world. The people I’ve seen in the videos--mostly puffy, late-middle age white guys who feast off the talents of others--look like they can spare a few bucks without making a spectacle of themselves. But I guess making a spectacle is what they want. These are tightfisted assholes who need everyone to see them being “charitable.” Otherwise, why do it?
Second, it’s a stupid ass challenge, an unspectacular moment of discomfort. If I told you there’d be a craze where ugly dudes in golf jerseys get doused with cold water, would you believe me? So you got doused with ice water. Big fucking deal. If you're trying to show humility, do it with your pants off and show your dick shriveling like a slice of cheap bacon in the pan. Now go dry off with the big fluffy towels that the person just off screen is holding for you. The action and reaction is always the same. Why are these dumbshits so shocked that ice water is cold?
Third, this is herd mentality, dullards unimaginative aping what others already did. I’d be more impressed if these so-called charitable pricks had to come up with something original. The first guy is challenged to send 5,000 volts through a copper rod in his ass. That guy dares the next to jump out of a plane without a parachute. Next is someone challenged to wear a Black Panthers vest to a Moose Lodge in West Virginia.
Jesus--or maybe Moby--said that the man with two coats should hand one to the guy riding a camel on the shaft of a needle. He didn’t say to post videos of yourself doing it. I have my own way of giving. When I do it, I don’t advertise. Sometimes I’m embarrassed when others learn of my generosity. Like last Thursday, I gave almost four bucks in nickels to a kid because he had a need and a unique challenge for me; if I didn’t give him some dough for bath salts he’d cut me with his busted scissors. Well done, young man! That’s how you solicit a donation. The reason I had all those nickels is because they add weight and give a sort of manly jingle to my walk. Now, though, my steps sound like every other asshole's.
Bottom line: I challenge rich fucks to give money to charity without telling anyone. Bet they can’t do it. Okay, that’s off my chest now. The only thing left there is the jelly from the donuts I ate in bed. Although, sometimes I can still smell shit from many years ago when I let a girl do a Cleveland Steamer. That smell’s like the damn blood spots in MacBeth.
Anyway, now it’s on to the fucking horrible, shrapnel-in-your-bowels awfulness of Let’s Be Cops, a movie based on one lyric from Television’s classic song “Venus de Milo.” Then Richie, Richie said, “Hey man, let’s dress up like cops. Think of what we can do.” Too bad the fuckers who made this turd skipped the song’s next line: Something, something, it said, “You better not,” because that’s the advice they should have taken.
Let’s Be Cops was written by Clippy, the paper clip from Microsoft Word. Nice to know he landed on his feet. Too bad he’s just as shitty at movies as he was at helping me write a resume. The movie is credited to human beings, but I’m pretty fucking sure they’re just the ones who wrote FADE IN:, at which point Clippy took control of the project.
Let’s Be Cops is about two losers (Jake Johnson and Damon Wayans, Jr.) who put on cop outfits for a masquerade ball, get mistaken for real cops and decide posing as cops will be fun. They get into mild hijinx, there’s a girl, and then they get entangled with real bad guys and have to prove themselves. In the end, one gets the girl and the promotion he dreamed of at work. The other gets to be a real cop. It’s as formulaic as possible. Every Goddamn beat of this story is predictable. Even the twists are as obvious as the hiding places for the Easter eggs at my cousin Larry’s group home. That’s how Clippy rolls, bitches.
All of the obviousness could be tolerable if Let’s Be Cops used it to hang some great gags off. There are none. Zip. Every fucking setup is mild and scared to push boundaries. Most of them don’t payoff with a punchline. I think Clippy and crew want us to add our own jokes. “I see you’re writing a joke. Maybe you should have a rabbi and a priest walk into a bar.” Johnson’s character’s claim to fame is a commercial. It’s a herpes medicine ad! Oh, Clippy, you scamp. No wonder my grandpa loves to talk to you. Ultimately, the movie pusses out on comedy and tries for an action-packed ending, but it's all so trite: dropped guns, hidden tunnels, torture sequences long enough to let the good guys escape.
The characters are as predictable as the plot. Johnson is loud, brash and single-note unlikeable. Wayans can’t decide whether to play it straight or as a hairdresser. The only female is left to scream and look pretty. The villain swaggers and threatens people like a bad guy in mid-80s Jean Claude Van Damme movies. The cameos are low-rent, with Rob Riggle, who is the go-to for unimaginative hacks in need of someone to play a cop, and Keegan-Michael Key doing a coffee-shop-improv show version of Li’l Wayne.
The whole production looks cheaper than the knockoff titles in the RedBox. Wayans love interes is supposed to be a makeup artist and they show us that by displaying a few cheap Halloween masks in her apartment. Half of the sets are porn quality, like bedrooms repurposed as police stations by putting a couple desks in them, or warehouses posing as hip nightclubs by adding a strobe light. The actors feel like second choices and the direction is as flat and unimagined as a Disney Channel sitcom.
Continuity is miserable. Jake Johnson’s stubble varies in length from scene to scene, and there are a couple instances of characters wearing shirts one instant, and missing them the next. Never mind the plot gaps, like what happened to Johnson’s car from the beginning of the movie, or how can two people talk to each in normal voices while “hiding” from a gunman a few feet away? Hell, the movie never explains where these guys got real cop uniforms. Nobody cared, not even Clippy, because he's an animated paper clip. And he is the movie’s soul.
The movie is rated R, but there are no tits. Clippy hates tits. “I see you want to write an R-rated movie. Let me add the word ‘fuck’ to that dialog for you.” Why bother making an awful movie R if you aren’t even going to give us boobs? It’s like non-alcoholic beer; all the shittiness without the one ingredient that makes lousiness forgivable.
Let’s Be Cops is crap, embarrassing, horrible shit. Clippy, you fucked up. You let the morons in Hollywood down. They probably won’t hire you again. Unless they get stuck after writing FADE IN: again. One Finger.