Turning and turning in the widening Escalade The Turtle cannot hear the Turtler Things fall apart; the studio cannot hold; Vince isn’t doing the movie. Dope shit is loosed upon the Strip, The tequila-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere Hot chicks, the kind you would totally swipe right on, are going hard on a yacht; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity that Vinny should direct this one, bro. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the second Entourage trailer is at hand.
The second Entourage trailer! Hardly are those words out When a vast image of Andrew Dice Clay Troubles my sight; a waste of desert sand known as L.A.; A shape with sausage body and head of a Piven; Adrian Grenier’s gaze blank and pitiless as the sun; Kevin Dillon is moving his slow thighs, while all about him E is having problems with Sloan.
The sick beat drops again, but now I know That eight seasons of aimlessly dicking around a shallow facsimile of the movie industry, then hitting the club, Were vexed to this full-length nightmare by a rocking Wahlberg. (“Oh YEAHHHHH,” the Wahlberg rocks. “Oh YEAHHHHHH”) And what sloppily conceived beast, its baffling 90 minutes come round at last, Slouches toward cinemas to be born?
