No Hot Babe On EARTH Would Talk To Clay

. . . unless she were pointing a gun at him and threatening his putrid, disgusting bitty life. Look, I knew what I was getting into. All “massacre” movies have hot women, broad (no pun intended) humor, mucho death and gallons of fake blood; but Clay—both as the character was written AND as the asshat who played him—was like the MC Politics section, cubed. He wasn’t funny. He was pathetic, and not in a sympathetic way. He was aggressively obnoxious. Imagine John Belushi without a scintilla of funny. Women as shallow, mean and self-absorbed as the babes in this movie literally would not have spoken to him. There are limits to suspending disbelief.