In three weeks, the pea-brained, estrogen-poisoned teenage girls of America will be flocking to see the next abomination in the “Twilight Saga,” which they’ve deluded themselves into thinking are vampire flicks.
The “Twilight” films are not vampire flicks.
I cannot write what “Twilight” really is because this is a family news outlet, but suffice it to say that “Twilight” was the worst motion picture ever produced. The video from an ATM surveillance camera is better than this drek. “Twilight” was an open sewer, a damnable pit of putrefaction, an atrocity, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten and putrid in the debris of human depravity.
And in the center of all this waste and stench, besmearing themselves with the foulest defilement, splash, leap, cavort and wallow two rancid specimens, two wimpy little “cute” boys who respond to the names of Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner. I say “cute” only because that’s what the teenage girls think. Me, of course I don’t think they’re “cute” — I mean, it’s not as if I’m gay or anything — so what if they both have drop-dead gorgeous eyes and pouty lips and killer bods. (And, oh! Those pictures of Taylor shirtless! I mean, I’d love to jump on top of him and force him to insert his werewolf into my womanhood — if I were a teen girl! But I digress.)
I would like to focus for a moment on this pretty boy, Robert. Robert is not a real vampire. I bet Robert has a tiny little pen*s, like a little boy. Robert is not a real man like Taylor. Taylor would chew up Robert’s balls and spit them out like raisins — but then again, it’s not like I have a crush on Taylor or anything. If I were on that set, I would have broken this Robert punk’s arms and shoved them up his “cute” little ass just to show him how a real movie vampire is supposed to act.
But again I digress. I literally became ill watching the first Twilight film: vampires attending biology class; vampires going to the prom; vampires playing baseball — in daylight, no less. My head spins! And it all was set in dreary Oregon, about as far from fabulous Transylvania as is possible. I swear, they made this film to mock me! Yes, to mock me!
There is only one way to salvage the “Twilight Saga”: As soon as I’m finished with this review, I’m going to call Dwight Frye and Helen Chandler and Eddie Van Sloane and see if we can’t get the old gang together and put out a real Vampire flick. You know, one with lots of shots of me hissing and over-acting and climbing up walls and so forth and so on. With lots of fog and wolves howling and old guys with monocles.
For goodness sake, did you see even one man wearing a monocle in “Twilight”? Neither did I! I want to hear just one faux Brit accent, in the stuffiest voice he can muster, exclaim: “Now you see here, old man!” That’s a vampire flick!
We’ll let Dwight “Renfield” Frye show off his world-class groveling and bug-eating talents! And since the Hays code is no longer enforced, we’ll let Helen “Mina” Chandler show off a little more flesh this time. Specifically, breasts. I’D LIKE THAT — because I’m a heterosexual male! Show me some female tits and ass, please! I AM NOT GAY! Believe me folks, Helen looks as gorgeous today as she did when she was “raising the dead” (if you know what I mean) back when we did “Dracula” in 1931.
Children of the Night! Listen to me! I am calling! We will avenge the insipid cinematic portrayal of our accursed eternal existence that threatens again to defame and defile us in multiplexes across this wretched land! We will remake the “Twilight Saga,” and this time it will be a movie that everyone — vampires and gays and heteros (LIKE ME) — can all appreciate and enjoy, or my name isn’t Bela Lugosi!