Michael Cera’s pretty dreamy. I love to see him putting on and taking off light layers … sweaters, graphic T-shirts, sometimes what appears to be a young girl’s riding blazer. Those ephebean shoulders …

Sure, you pathetic nerd whore, Cera’s attractive in a spermy kind of way … As in, if you are attracted to men who look like the contents of semen. I know that you thought “Paper Heart” was a real documentary. You deranged sucker for stop-motion animation, go cry into your adorable Ikea potted plants that you’ve named after children’s television characters. I want to put out my cigarette in your eye.

Who the hell are you?

I am you, except that I don’t even secretly like the new Vampire Weekend album, I don’t cut my own hair when I’m feeling lonely and I date men that weigh more than me.

Weren’t you the one sitting next to me in the theater when I went to see Youth in Revolt?

Yes, you shit, you. Learn to turn your fucking cell phone off before the feature begins. I am here to make sure that you don’t get all mushy and write a glowing review for a movie you already can’t remember the plot of.

I remember the plot. Nick Twisp is a bit of a dorkwad, who partakes in a vacation hook-up with a hot girl who lives in a two-story trailer (which, by the way, seems impractical). Twisp spends the rest of the movie — with the help of frequent visitations from his mustachioed, tight pants-wearing, bolder, imagined self — trying to win the love of the girl by breaking the law and running around in his underwear.

What are you doing, you fucking feeble amoeba?

Listening to the iTunes store samples from the “Youth in Revolt” soundtrack.

You turd, you just bought the whole thing because the one Bananarama song you wanted was album only, didn’t you?


I saw you smiling when the movie opened with that self-indulgent masturbation scene. You’re a lost cause.

I am not. Even I am getting a little sick of Michael Cera and his doe-eyed shenanigans. But at least in this movie he was lighting towns on fire and stealing cars and drugging a girl against her will and not just, you know, strumming his guitar until an equally pale and deadpan doe-eyed female wearing a matching hoodie agrees to hold his hand.

Look at you, all sassy. Quick, say something indulgent about the talented supporting cast, or about how that bland love interest was “radiant” or “glowing” and the review will be done!

You know, I don’t have to take this from you. Steve Buscemi was underused. Sometimes the New Yorker is hip to it. The folks over there may not appreciate my cartoon captions, which are obviously funnier than the ones that are published (“For the record, are you a duck or a rabbit?” Is there no God?), but you’ve got to love Buscemi. And Fred Willard, in his underwear, staring at the nubbins of the rug, high on shrooms, that stuff is brilliant. Someone finally taking advantage of how scary Ray Liotta’s face truly is and making him a lusty, evil cop, who actually flogs Michael Cera onscreen — don’t hold your applause. And there may just be a new crop of young actors that I can get behind. Adhir Kalyan with his Mr. Potato Head head and his tentative top bunk sex scene, Erik Knudsen with his crooked penis, Rooney Mara with her smoking hot bod and icy cold slut campaign, well, they all are looking mighty good next to yawn-fest Ellen Page. Her facial features are too small.

I think my job here is done.

Well … OK. It was nice meeting you. Not to get all Parent Trap on you right now, but do you like Oreos with peanut butter on them? Because I’m noticing a striking resemblance between the two of us.

You ugly goon, how dare you insinuate that I look like you? You are wimpy and cloying. I am suave and debonair.

Well at least I’m not a lady with a mustache. You should really take care of that.