Guest
Dear Sirs, Mamograms and Sam I Ams To whom it may concern and other pleasantries. It is my pleasure to announce to you a feat of tedium so gargantuan yet so mindboggingly infinitesimal it chicken-fries the brain and makes you long for a time before 2016, so you can shake the bricks out of a young artist and scream in his innocent and cherubishly adorable face “DON”T DO IT, DON”T DO DEADPOOL!” But, yet, alas, a fool must persist in his folly. I will let the plumbers do the math and figure out how many frames it takes before a man goes mad, I will let the geologists decide if pretending to make a film while filming a film while watching a film is reality distilled to its purest essence. The baristas can debate whether devoting so much time and energy on a film about a man so ugly on the outside that he kills a bunch of people is worth literally anything. The only certain certainty is a film certainly was made. A film so epic it falls somewhere between Ben Hur and Shakes the Clown. A film so self-center
