Inglorious Bastards

Hollywood has been all poopy-pants over the announcement that Quentin Tarantino plans to remake the ultra-violent film Inglorious Bastards. For weeks, casting rumors have swirled like bong hits: each one longer and weirder than the preceeding. Allow me to explain:

Hit 1: Brad Pitt, starring. Delicious, noxious fumes invade your lungs and brain, excite you, entice you, demand more.

Hit 2: Simon Pegg, arty, cool. You’re feeling it, calming, but still craving.

Hit 3: B.J. Novak, random. You’re stoned now, for sure, and want to discuss the importance of Dawson’s Creek as it reflected your life and how the planetary alignments affected you during high school. (What?)

Hit 4: Nastassja Kinski, who? You can’t even remember your name anymore.

And, finally, Hit 5: Eli Roth. This hit hurts. You want to throw up now. You should have stopped before. You over-indulged and now you’re paying for it.

Really, QT, Eli Roth? Who wants to see that douchebag act? He better die first, and spectacularly.