‘Mouse-Fans,’ she said, waving forty-eight knees,
‘I’m the 100%-Recycled-Paper Alchemist. I speak for the trees.
I speak for the trees, for the trees have no voice,
and I’m telling you, friends, that if it’s your choice
to ignore the Earth’s peril and the tree-hugger’s cry,
you won’t like my review. In that case, goodbye.
Today we’ll be taking a look at The Lorax,
a movie that fills my whole cephalothorax
with sorrow and anguish, dismay and despair.
It could have been great, but they just didn’t care.’
I wish I wasn’t so sad about this.
I approached this review raring to have a big cathartic bitch sesh. As Pixar put it in Ratatouille, snark is fun to write, and to read. But I don’t think I have it in me today. I thought I was just hangsty – a close relative of hangry – so I went for a snack…
… but it didn’t help.
Thing is, despite my horrifying face and painful venom, my heart is proportionately huge in relation to my body size (just don’t ask where it is). And I have a terrible habit of letting things get too close to it. That’s the trouble with having an exoskeleton: you’re tougher outside than in. So if you really don’t want to be sad today, go back and check out my Snow Queen review. Or the time – ha ha – the time I made Mouse review Space Chimps with the nipple-headed alien. Because misery is takin’ the wheel.