Yesterday, I went with a load of people to watch Field of Wank. I only went because Karen Plower is fit.
The premise of the film was that if baseball fields were built on all the farms, obliterating perfectly good crop fields, America could sustain itself on baseball, nostalgia, and regurgitated hotdog. This is probably true.
Kevin Colostomy starts hearing voices, and because there are no psychiatrists in Iowa and they believe in hick voodoo, everyone comes down to his Psychofarm and watches ghosts play rounders. Meanwhile, Darth Vader has retired and settled down in the countryside with his phone off the hook. Killing the Emperor sent him too much the other way, and he is now some crumby phoney hack writer. The subplot is that Colostomy stalks him until his brain bleeds and he agrees to write another crumby phoney book if Colostomy will fuck off.
In the end, everyone goes back to the thirties and dies in a giant dust storm.
I'd rather fuck a blender on full power than ever watch shit like that again. I hope Colostomy drowns. Actually, I hope he almost drowns but survives, goes broke, and ends up in obscurity working as a postman. Ha, I'm a sick motherfucker.
Apparently, xxxxxxxxxx likes it. Another reason to hope she dies. Karen Plower cleverly missed most of the film by spending the majority of it swapping tonsils with that prick Darren Harvey.
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