, America! Hollywood thinks you’re all fucking idiots! Want to prove them wrong? Awesome. Don’t go see Old Dogs next year when it passes through your local megaplex like last night’s Olive Garden.

Because you’re inured to the implied insult of studio product like Wild Hogs, I know this is going to be a tough assignment. But I believe in you. I grew up in Ohio, and I trust in your discernment. Just as we stayed away from Eve of Destruction even though that Dutch blonde chick in the tight red outfit looked real hot gettin’ chased by Gregory Hines through the New York City subway system, we’re going to refuse Walt Becker’s Old Dogs no matter how much enjoyment John Travolta and Robin Williams have given us over the years. Though Williams can still amuse on occasion (see The Aristocrats), his appearance in a commercial comedy is now the kiss of death. Same goes for Travolta, who hasn’t been good in anything since Mike Nichols’s Primary Colors. This movie is a paycheck for everyone involved: for the stars, for Becker (whose horrible comedic timing ruins anything Ryan Reynolds did right in the original Van Wilder), and for the quality-averse producers. And they’re hoping you march mindlessly to the ticket counter based on movie star goodwill largely built up over a decade ago. Goddamn it, you’re better than this.

If you care about the plot, Old Dogs is about two business partners who wind up caring for seven-year-old twins. That’s the pitch, folks. It’s a throwback to the Three Men & a Baby/Three Fugitives model, only directed by a guy who can’t sell a joke.

Disney will be releasing this turd sometime next year – probably in the early March Wild Hogs slot. Thank god for Judd Apatow.