Once again, the fine people of Hollywood have gotten out their big metal rod, shoved it up my ass and reamed me with mechanical precision. I will attempt to describe to you exactly how furious I am at wasting two hours with "You've Got Mail," but I may be too blinded by my anger to do a proper job. So, whatever you read, double the cuss words and you'll be closer to my true feelings. This movie is, far and away, the biggest piece of shit I've seen this year.

A piece of shit isn't necessarily a poorly made movie. "You've Got Mail" is technically well done, as I would expect from its big name cast and big-ass budget. But it still sucks the crusted dick of a mad cow, because there is no reason for it to exist other than to make money. This is nobody's labor of love.

First, let me describe the cutesy-pie bullshit plot. Tom Hanks owns a giant bookstore that drives a small children's bookstore out of business. At the same time he is anonymously romancing its owner, Meg Ryan, through e-mail. In person they dislike each other because of their business differences. But in e-mail they get along wonderfully and discover how much they have in common. Well, despite the fact that Hanks destroys the business that has been in Ryan's family for 42 years, she can't help but fall in love with him in person, and not just online. Hoo-fucking-ray.

Now, even though the movie has enough problems to fill a pair of Mrs. Filthy's sweat pants, I would like to tell you what I liked about it. In one scene, Meg Ryan walks past an awning that says "Pancakes Make People Happy." That was okay.

Here is my special message to co-writer and director Nora Ephron: Fuck you, you skanky whore. Fuck your co-writing sister Delia too. You are whores because you turned this trick purely for money. Go suck someone's ass, but not mine because I don't want you soul-suckers near me.

Let me elaborate: the Ephrons do not give their script any soul. There isn't a shred of art to it. Even they don't feel a need to tell this story, except for a paycheck. They don't believe in the romance they barf up there, but they expect us to.

Every character is a synthetic composition from some secret screenplay handbook. Hanks and Ryan are perfect and adorable. Their lovers are self-centered, and cheating on them is totally justifiable because of that. Hanks has the obligatory "hip" black sidekick. Ryan has a shop full of sweet, idiosyncratic employees. Hanks has an adorable dog that gives us lots of reaction shots. Blah fucking blah blah. It plays like a Hallmark commercial because that's how deep it is.

Without making one effort to be different, the Ephrons go about ticking off the checkmarks on their list of required characters and scenes. They also force the characters to say some hack, cutesy stand-up comedy shit because they thought it was clever, even if it doesn't fit into the story. Every time I heard someone in the audience laugh, it was the compliant laugh of asswipes trained by television to do as they're told. They were no genuine laughs.

Folks, the Ephrons think we're stupid and we'll eat their shit up. Well, in the Filthy household there is only one creature that eats up shit, and that is my dog Scooter. She loves it. But even she would gag on this maggot-infested log.

Giant corporations are evil, "You've Got Mail" tells us. Independent retailers have spunk and personality. Ryan tells us to support her little store so the neighborhood doesn't lose its charm. Meanwhile, she buys her coffee at Starbucks, and lives a clichéd yuppie, consumer-culture existence. Ryan even dares to call Baby Gap "awful" while she lives in a Habitrail made by Crate and Barrel. Hollywood must think we're really Goddamn stupid if they expect us to cheer for the little guy in a $60 million movie whose sole purpose is to make a shitload of money for a humongous company. They are exploiting the little guy to make themselves even richer.

Then, to show how half-assed the movie's stab at a message is, Ryan is barely sad when she finally closes the store that her mother opened. Her employees go work for the giant bookstore and that's wonderful in this world. Ryan is better off without the store, we learn, because now she is a children's book author. There are no repercussions to the small store closing, because, if there were, then we couldn't cheer for her unconvincing happy ending with Hanks. To hell with the neighborhood and the need for independents because the moviemakers don't need that plotline anymore.

Fuck you, Ephrons!

Everyone in this movie is a dirty yuppie. If you're a yuppie, good for you, but don't advertise it because it's not an achievement. And don't celebrate the fact that you're like everyone else, with your SUVs that never go off-road, your all-star kids and your conspicuous consumption. Why do the moviemakers think we want to see yuppies doing yuppie shit, smirking and acting precious? Beats the hell out of me. "You've Got Mail's" characters are rich, spoiled, attractive, whiny and never in any danger. What could we possibly hope for them? That their pretty lives get better?

In addition to the yuppies, "You've Got Mail" romanticizes e-mail like you wouldn't believe. According to it, every piece of e-mail is some incredibly romantic sweet-nothing and not "HARDCORE TEENS XXX PICS!!" There is no junk-mail, no typos, no LOL shit. What a load of crap.

Meg Ryan needs Ritalin. Either that or she's more convinced that she's adorable than I will ever be. She can't go through a single scene without scrunching her nose, pouting, smiling, or twitching like an epileptic. It's like, even she can't get comfortable in the skin of her ultra-sappy character. Hanks is only moderately better. His face is getting really fat, though.

I could go on. I have a couple of pages worth of notes about the dog. But needless to say, this cynical exercise in money-making is one finger's worth. God, how I wish I would have left after fifteen minutes like I wanted to.

Before I go, I want to say fuck you to a few more people involved in this piece of shit: the assholes that made the TRON-quality computer-animation at the beginning; the best boy; the key grips; the dog's trainer; the caterers; casting director; the studio secretaries and all of the executive producers. May you all be flayed alive. You owe me two hours of my life and I will come to collect.

Want to tell Filthy Something?