The Daily Beast decided to rate movies based on the insipid, grotesquely sentimental novels of Nicholas Sparks from best to least best.
No joke, go read it here if you don’t believe me.
Just so you know, we at McBlogger have assigned the blame for those movies to You People. You People keep going to see them, dragging along your boyfriends who’d rather be doing literally anything (including spending time with you mother while eating week old fish entrails) other that seeing ANOTHER movie based on a novel by Nicholas Sparks. Without you, these stupid movies wouldn’t be made and the whole world would be infinitely better since it would lack the examples of unrealistically perfect love these movies create. Fewer marriages would end in divorce, there would be less war, North Korea would be BFF’s with South Korea, fans of every other NFL team would suddenly embrace the Cowboys, climate change would cease and India would tell Pakistan ‘Oops… our bad. Kashmir is totally yours. Sorry about all the fuss’.
Of course, that can’t happen because you dipshit bobbleheads keep shelling out money to see these movies. And no, don’t even think of blaming this on the single fat girls. You all played a part in this. You all created this hellish world we all live in. You’re all responsible for these horrific adaptations and, finally, you’re all responsible for Mumford and Sons, but that’s for another time.
And, to answer The Daily Beast on which of these movies is best, it’s totally The Vow. Because that guy from that thing is in it and it really didn’t suck even though it was painfully written, we assume, by the same asshole who did the script for Battlefield Earth and edited by an orangutan. A blind orangutan.
Yes, my friends, I know suffering. It’s what happens to you when you watch The Vow. I should have left it out there in the universe, unobserved, simultaneously sucking and being good. But no, I had cocktails one Saturday night and came home to collapse quantum uncertainty into a definite state of suck. Like a fool who’d drunk too much (which I was), I figured I could handle it. My laughter stopped midway through and turned to sadness when I realized I could not stop watching and my life would never be the same after seeing what is a masterpiece of shit greater than any produced in any gas station toilet by any laborer who has eaten nothing but burritos from HEB. For five days.
My life would be forever altered by the two hours I could never, ever get back. Ever. Healing? Well, you never really heal from that kind of trauma. You can only muddle through with painful memories and deep, unrelenting sadness.
The best Nicholas Sparks movie is the one you don’t watch, even when tempted by it’s appearance on HBO after a few drinks. You’re welcome.