To Whom It May Concern

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Shaggy the Creep

I wrote this on the 10th of June 2008, some time after going to see Saw IV and finding it horrible.  It reminded me of the worst film I ever paid to see, Scooby Doo 2.  Do yourself a favour and never watch it.


To Whom It May Concern

Dear “Producers”,

Yeah you, I’m talking to you. I feel a strong need to share my over-ripened hatred with your no good, worthless asses. Recently, I had the misfortune of watching Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 at my local cinema. That was a spectacular mistake on my part. Simply put, your movie is a bowl of fuck. My anus weeps runny brown tears at the mere thought of it, yet somehow I will endure this warm fudge puddle as I relate to you my feelings on the tragic rape of my Saturday night.

That mouldy toe-cheese and anal scrapings pie of a movie was so ball-blisteringly atrocious that I had no choice other than to vomit all over the person seated in front of me. Honestly, the sight of those putrid chunks of filth sliding down his sweaty bald melon was a damn sight more entertaining than that colossal asshat of a movie. What I still don’t understand, is just exactly why I felt compelled to purchase a ticket for this abomination on celluloid in the first place. Perhaps it was the advertising I saw on television, maybe that’s what enticed me. Yes, that must be it. I must have liked the TV ads. Well, it was either that or I have some undiagnosed mental condition.

Regardless, I go and watch this miserable pile of bastard with my good friend Tosh. A mere five minutes into the feature he communicates to me through a series of lurid hand gestures that this movie is unadulterated “wank poop”. I had to agree with him wholeheartedly, for wank poop was exactly what it was. I conveyed my agreement by standing up, dropping my trousers, bending over and unleashing a sizeable wave of diarrhoea onto the cinema screen.

It’s around this time that my stomach decides to evacuate its contents via my mouth onto the follicley challenged gentleman sitting in front of me. There was a notable amount of screaming. I did feel somewhat bad for the man, after all he had just witnessed an arc of brown fudge batter narrowly pass overhead, only to be bathed in my warm bile soup afterwards. I had been drinking blueberry Slush Puppy too. Peg me sideways with a pickle, those things are lush.

I suppose that everyone around me in the cinema that day got some degree of satisfaction from their movie-going experience in the end. That is because the sight and smell of a stranger’s ripe bodily fluids participating in an unscheduled redecoration of the cinema was infinitely more thrilling (and engaging) than your utter omelette of a pig manure art project. As I have made quite clear, Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 is a total polyp of a film, it’s actually worse than a bag of fresh dog feces set on fire and left on your doorstep. Just when you think it’s safe to stamp the flames out, you end up with brown anal sludge slopped all over your expensive slippers. Seeing and smelling my steaming diarrhoea and vomit was a much more pleasant experience. In fact, feces is once again running down my leg as I type this at the mere recollection of that forsaken goat teet of a movie.

The rest of the audience equally hated it. I could tell. I was not the only one to throw anal waste at the screen. In fact, after the credits had rolled and I had helped a trio of pensioners disconnect and lob their colostomy bags at the ushers, I made a point of running around outside in the atrium asking each and every one of those poor, shell shocked bastards if they thought Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 was the movie equivalent of a lobotomy and anal probing with a large pencil at the same time. They all agreed with me that it was. One suggested that I take ecstasy and try it again. He’s dead now. That didn’t have anything to do with me though.

Now, I do realise that some people may have actually enjoyed this movie, much in the way that I acknowledge that there are people out there with profound learning disabilities. I met someone out in that atrium who told me that he absolutely loved said dog fart of a film. I was taken aback. Not only had I met someone who deserved to be drowned in the diarrhoea of a thousand cholera-suffering apes, but he was also carrying around a deceased pigeon. It was stuffed behind his ear, in the same manner a builder would with a pencil. Someone, and I’m not saying who, pushed this man in front of a bus that night. Several of us gathered around the splattered puddle and stared at it for 90 minutes. It was more entertaining than your film. Your film was pants.

Now let’s break that analogy down, shall we? We shall. This divine twat of a movie is indeed pants, but it’s not the equivalent of good pants. Nor is it mediocre pants, It’s not even Tesco Value, left out in the rain for seven weeks on the rotting corpse of a homeless man pants. I would rather suck the sweat out of those pants than watch your movie again. So what kind of pants is this film? Well, it’s the kind of pants you would see only Shaggy himself wearing. That is, the very same dirty delinquent bastard from this movie who looks like he’d be too stoned to realise he’d dropped a series of deuces in his trousers a month ago. Those are some pretty bad pants. Be that as it may, you would still rather wear them on your head than behold this festering rectal wart of a movie with your poor accursed eyeballs.

In summation, Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 was a waste of my Saturday night and I would like to point out to the makers of this atrocity that I will be arriving on their doorsteps in the very near future to slap their smug faces off their worthless skulls and steal all the nice things they happen to own in the apartments they bought off the money they made from my ticket. I’m also seeking compensation for my Slush Puppy. You don’t get to churn out a brown plasticine log like that in Hollywood and get away with it. Why do you even call yourselves producers? As far as I can tell, you took a hangover-grade shit and called it a film and now you’re producers? Well I produced a brown toilet submarine myself while watching your movie and my liquid bowel baby was plastered all over the big screen, does that make me a producer now? No, it makes me a guy who took a shit in a cinema. That’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, which is exactly what you useless scrotum lesions have to do now as well.

Thank you for your time, screw you for making this movie and I hope you have a terrible life full of skin diseases and brutal accidents. You assholes.

Yours spectacularly,

Ernie Penisdance

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