Every week Robert Saucedo shines a spotlight on a movie either so bad it’s good or just downright terrible. Today: Shark week!
The first time I saw Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, it was at the tail end of a 13-hour long bad movie marathon.
Leading up to the film, I had watched five of the worst movies I’d ever seen — so it’s no surprise that I was not in the most chipper of moods when I sat down and watched the movie in question. My foul temperament shows in the review I wrote for Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus; it was a pretty vicious drubbing of a movie that I should have enjoyed.
I love giant monster movies — the cheesier the better. A film that pitted two sea creatures as enormous as they are vicious should have been my cup of tea, right?
With Shark Week hanging over me like the sharp-toothed Ghost of Christmas Past, I decided to revisit Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus in a slightly more cheerier mood and see if I couldn’t enjoy the film more the second time around.
Verdict: The film is still godawful.
Watching Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus for a second time is the film equivalent of thinking the sandwich you just finished eating is made out of shit and than somebody coming up to you and informing you that no, you’re wrong — the sandwich is actually made out of aborted puppy fetuses.
For those of you who where hoping to read another review of the movie, I’m sorry. I just can’t bring myself to reexamine a film as shallow and assaulting bad as Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus. If you would like to read something that simulates the experience of watching Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus for the second time in a year, though, take a baseball bat, place it to your forehead, run around in a circle ten times, drink a shotglass of Drano, kick a kitten and then read my previous review backwards. Then go and stand in the corner of your room and cry for thirty minutes.
Instead of re-reviewing it, I’m going to list a few things I’d rather do than watch the film for a third time:
Gargle Phyllis Diller’s woman juices; surgically implant tiny televisions underneath my eyelids that show a never-ending loop of Vanilla Ice’s Cool as Ice; give John Goodman a bath with nothing but my tongue and a Q-tip; share a 38-hour non-stop Greyhound bus ride with Justin Bieber; have my kneecaps blown off by an angry IRA officer and then be tended to by a 380-pound asthmatic Twilight fan with a stutter; snort seawater off the back of Kanye West while he talks about himself for eight straight hours; attend a Tea Party rally; become the end piece of a human centipede; top my ice cream sundae with the dried up blood from Lindsay Lohan’s nose after she’s just done a line of blow; read the angry comments of readers who have ruined their laptop from vomiting all over their keyboards while reading this column; star in a Tyler Perry film; snuggle up with the dehydrated corpses that Crispin Glover keeps in his basement; read any of the books in the Babysitters Club series; chug a glass of eggnog that was left outside over a weekend in Texas; watch A Serbian Film with my mother; fill my anal cavity with pop rocks and then undergo a Coca-Cola enema; sew raw pieces of chicken onto my nipples and then do a strip dance in front of the polar bear exhibit at the local zoo; talk to Sarah Palin for any length of time; go clubbing with Mel Gibson in Queens; clean out Kevin Smith’s fleshlight with a straw and, finally, look up the definition of hyperbole in the dictionary.
Now excuse me, I’ve got another bad movie to go and watch.
Robert Saucedo is not proud of himself for writing this column. He is pleased with himself, though. Follow Robert on Twitter @robsaucedo2500.
