Synopsis: A classic Hanna-Barbera cartoon is raped repeatedly until it bears no resemblance to its former self.
As I drove to the theater on Christmas Eve to do my critic’s duty and watch Yogi Bear, I found myself nodding off.Some good friends had come back into town the night before, and perhaps the celebration had gone a bit too far…
My heavy eyelids closed involuntarily and suddenly bright lights began flashing all around me and a whirlwind kicked up out of an unnaturally dark sky.I was cool with this because it seemed like the sort of excuse that could get me out of watching this movie, but my contentment quickly turned to confusion when three Christmas Yogis appeared.
The first was the classic Yogi of the good ‘ol days, the Yogi of Christmas Past if you will.Upon seeing him I was instantly transported back to Saturday afternoons of watching him and BooBoo outsmarting the Ranger.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that this Yogi was wearing shackles, and had obviously been seriously abused by somebody with no regard for simple human decency.
What they had done to BooBoo was much, much more horrifying. *
I tried to comfort him…
…and then he was replaced by some sort of CGI abomination holding a six-pack.I figured I’d roll with this because nothing offering you beer could possibly mean you harm.
I was less sure of this when I found this Yogi of Christmas Present sitting on my chest and forcing a bottle between my teeth.A vision of him and a grotesque little BooBoo dancing to “I Like Big Butts” and making tired bean jokes filled my mind.As I was trying to find the right words to describe the opposite of funny…
…he pushed another bottle in my mouth.More visual gag jokes rushed in, some of which might have merited a chuckle if they weren’t immediately explained and then re-referenced minutes later just in case you missed them the first time.I found myself growing desperate.
Then a familiar face appeared.I thought Anna Faris might save me, but she just sat there making old noises and staring at me with dead eyes and her mouth hanging open.
When she opened another beer and handed it to Present Yogi I started to scream.
The sound of my own terror couldn’t drown out the lazy plot swirling around me that seemed to have been lifted from every children’s movie ever made.I found myself hoping that the corrupt politician would somehow be able to close Jellystone Park and log it, and particularly that he would be able to eradicate the overly convenient endangered species that stood in his way.
As the Yogi of Christmas Future entered, wearing a reaper’s robe and counting an acceptable but really not even that great pile of money, I motioned to BooBoo with the last beer.It was obvious that he had reservations about what was happening.When Yogi started to talk about a sequel, BooBoo knew what he had to do.
I woke up on the side of the road.There was no beer on my breath, but the memory of what had happened was fresh on my mind.To help eradicate these swirling images I knew I’d need something stronger.Maybe lighter fluid…
No.Spare yourself this soul-less garbage.
* Here’s a link to the original article, which is hilarious.Perhaps the Nicaraguan girl could see the future?
!*! I am nowhere near talented enough to have made that video.Thanks to Edmund Earle for your flash of genius and making it available on YouTube.He’s definitely worth following to see what he’ll come up with next.
Bonus Drinking Game
Take a drink: when Ana Faris looks incredibly clueless
Take a drink: whenever the urge to scream begins to rise in your chest
Drink a shot: at the point you tearfully decide to burn your copy of The Blues Brothers, loudly cursing Dan Ackroyd for retroactively ruining your childhood