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“I now call this meeting of the United Foes of the Unshaved Mouse to order. Roll call! Comrade Crow!”
Gentlemen. Ladies. Assorted vermin. You know why I have summoned you all here.
“I gotta question, Horny. Why are we holding meetings when the Mouse is still breathing? Why don’t we just take him out now?”
“Silence you over-varnished fool! Don’t you understand that an enemy like Batman can’t be defeated by mere brute strength? We have to…I think I might be in the wrong meeting.”
“Yeah. I think you’re across the hall.”
“Forgive me gentlemen.”
McCarthy. I would advise you to hold your tongue. Or I shall hold it for you.
“C’mon! Lets kill the Mouse!”
Fool. We’re not going to kill the Unshaved Mouse.
“Sorry, I think I might be in the wrong meeting too…”
No. We are not going to kill him. After all, there are things so much worse than death. I have devised a fate so heinous for the Unshaved Mouse that it can scarcely be believed. But it requires finesse, and patience.
“What is the plan, tovarich?”
First I will implant a hypnotic suggestion in the Mouse’s subconscious. Disney’s manipulations of him have left him uniquely susceptible to this. I intend to strike when he is at his weakest. His most vulnerable. His most…despairing.
Alright, you know what? Before I can even approach this one I have got to rant about the poster. The goddamn poster! That’s how much suck we have to get through here.
“Bust a Moo?”
BUST A MOO?!!!!
WHAT THE FLAGELLATING FINICKY FLIPPING FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN!!???
FIND ME WHO CAME UP WITH THAT! I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING! FIND ME WHO WROTE THAT TAGLINE SO THAT I CAN PSYCHICALLY KILL THEM WITH PURE HATRED! DO IT NOW!
“Mouse. Calm down. Your friends are worried about you.”
“We’re worried. Yes.”
Sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry but…oh God that poster. That poster pretty much encapsulates the whole problem with this movie. Just this weird, desperate attempt to be hip and funny that fails so badly you’re not even sure if that’s what they were going for. It’s one thing to come last in a race. It’s another to come last because you were pushing a bobsled on the track. One just means you were bad. The other is being so inept it’s hard for an outside observer to be sure that you were even trying to win. Like all the real turkeys in the Disney canon, details on Home on the Range’s origins are hard to come by. Wikipedia, TV Tropes and IMDb are pretty light on facts and presumably only God and Michael Eisner know where the bodies are buried. I do know that Home on the Range started pre-production all the way back in 1995, that it was once going to be called Sweating Bullets and that the premise was at one point that a young calf named Bullets taking on a gang of ghost cattle rustlers called The Willies. Yeah, so this thing was always going to suck, basically. There is no universe where this movie turned out well.