I was all set to dislike “Wild Hogs”. I was. I mean, it stars Tim Allen, John Travolta, Martin Lawrence, and William H. Macy, which has the potential of being really good, or being a cosmically bad combination of talent destined to grace the same video shelf as “Ishtar”, “Glitter”, “Gigli”, or “Battlefield Earth”, which coincidentally starred our very own Travolta here, plus recent Oscar winner Forrest Whittaker, who looks as though he’s saying “Please God, I know the paycheck’s nice and all, but do I have to do THIS? I’ll do ‘ER’, I’ll do Broadway, whatever you want – just don’t put my name on this horrible waste of celluloid, OK? What? It’s too late? They’ve already made POSTERS? Fine. Then get me an Oscar later on. It’s the least you could do. Travolta? Fuck him. He’s bankrolling this fiasco. Tell Mr. Look Who’s Talking to deal with it in his own way.” Who could blame Forrest? That movie was the cinematic equivalent of ringworm. But I digress.

I was all set to dislike “Wild Hogs”. I only picked that movie because there weren’t a lot of great choices this weekend, and I know DWW likes Travolta (but hates his wife, Kelly Preston, for some reason. Go figure). After a 20oz steak and the biggest dirty martini ever served, I felt that I was adequately prepared to face the hot mess that I was sure this movie would be.


Seriously, look at that thing. To put it into perspective, when I grabbed the glass by the stem, my whole hand minus my index finger was on the stem. And I’ve got some big, bass-playing hands. Grey Goose, olive juice, worked together to make me loose. It rhymes and gets you drunk by half a glass. Shit, I spilled 1/4th of it on my shirt as I was trying to chug it on our way out! I’m such a charmer, I swear.

So after filling up on steak and martini, we ambled on over to the theatre, bought our tickets, and settled in. We were right on time, meaning we were late, and the only seats remaining were down front, in the Neckbrace Area, almost directly below the screen. This is an awful place to sit, and I’ll never understand the people who sit there on purpose. You’re looking almost directly up at the screen, which is bad enough, but then as you relax into your seat to relieve the pressure on your neck, you get so drowsy that you wanna fall asleep. Well, you do after a 20oz. steak and a dirty martini that looks like it was made for Paul Bunyon. Anyway.

The movie started, and I was laughing within 2 minutes, in spite of myself. Do you understand the internal struggle that takes place when you’ve already made up your mind NOT to laugh, yet the events that transpire force that response? You know, like if someone farts in church, or if an old lady falls on a wet spot in the mall, or the chick you can’t stand at work gets fired, right in front of God and everyone, and she’s all crying and snotting up and blubbering, and she gets escorted off the premises because she got loud and started calling the boss’ momma a puta and kicking over trash cans? Yeah, THAT kind of laughing.

The movie is funny. It’s not “Clerks 2” or “Friday” funny, but I laughed consistently throughout. I think I only fell asleep once or twice, but not due to boredom. When you hold your head back like that, full of good food and alcohol, sitting in a dark theatre, thinking about Eva Mendes (What? A brotha can’t think about Eva Mendes? Have you SEEN Eva Mendes? Alright then), you can’t help but drift off.

Man. Eva Mendes should’ve been in that movie. I would’ve definitely given it more than the 3.5 stars I’m giving it now. But I still think you should go see the flick. Just watching Martin Lawrence on a motorcycle is worth it. Oh, and William H. Macy too, who plays the best nerd in ages. Check it out.