Gods, the things I do for this blog.
Just watched a trailer for the new Nicholas Sparks novel that got adapted into a film for some reason, Dear John. I suggest you don’t click the link unless you want your soul to projectile vomit.
I’m having trouble talking about this film. Tanning Chatum’s chest appears to star in it, which is fine.
Amanda Sefried is still slumming, which is less than fine because, really, she could do so much better. So much better.
Apparently there’s a Snow Patrol song in the trailer, and they could also do better, but I guess you’ve got to take your money where you can get it or something.
“Dear John,” “Dear John,” “Dear John,” “Dear John,” “Dear John.” Hey, I wonder what the name of this movie is?!
Tanning Chatum’s chest leaping into the ocean to save a purse. Really? It didn’t even look like a brand-name purse.
Someone just pointed out to me that Tanning Chatum is actually a guy named Channing Tatum, which, also really? Huh. At least I was closer than when I was trying to call him Tatum Canning, I guess. I’m just going to call him Mr. Chesty from now on. That’s easier.
Apparently, Mr. Chesty has a big, bad scary past. Ooooooh.
“I know your dad loves you, even if you don’t.” STOP SLUMMING!
Can someone please take anything that could be used for writing away from Nicholas Sparks so I never have to endure this horror again? PLEASE? There’s a new Nicholas Sparks movie, like, once every two months, and enough is enough. Please make it stop.