The Dukes of Hazzard

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By Mark Ramsey | 2005/08/11

What in tarnation?

This weekend there’s only one movie to see when you run out of shit to kick, and that’s The Dukes of Hazzard.

Reviewing Dukes is like contemplating what wine is best served with your Egg McMuffin. You don’t review a movie like this, you just point your lips towards a spittoon and fire.

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Maybe I’d like this flick if only I didn’t have so many dad gum teeth. Strip-mining, racing, moonshine – all the reasons why audiences don’t go to the movies anymore in one thin plot!

Ah, Hazzard county. It’s a place where “son of a bitch” is three syllables. The place where apple pie was invented, and by “apple pie” I mean crystal meth. No wonder the audience was grinding their teeth and attentively disassembling their cell phones by the light of Jessica Simpson’s ass.

That ass, by the way, is most famous for dropping the kids off at the pool on MTV and smothering Nick Lachey’s will to live the way the wings of buffalo smother the plains with their furious flapping.

Bo and Luke, the Duke boys, are hard-drivin’, hard-drinkin’, hard-lovin’, hard-fightin’, and hard to tolerate.

“Where’s the cotton at in this Oxycontin?” asks Bo.

“Just grahnd it uuuup,” Luke replied, “it’s sponsored by Lowes, Pennzoil, Motorcraft, Sprint, Dodge, Napa, Viagra, Bud, and Mr. F**king Goodwrench.”

“Sumabitch!” said Bo.

In Hazzard county everyone’s a cousin. No wonder Hazzard’s the world capital of genetically maladaptive withered appendages.

“Yee-haw! Let’s high-five our genetically maladaptive withered appendages, Bo!”

“You got it, Luke!”

Slap!

Johnny Knoxville is the redneck Ralph Fiennes. Best known for stapling his gonads to his forehead and strumming his testicles like a harp, Knoxville’s very name says “somewhere’s in Tennessee.”

And Sean William Scott has been playing the dumb-ass adolescent so long I’m surprised Greta Van Susteren isn’t camped outside his apartment waiting for his missing adulthood to turn up.

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In its never-ending goodwill towards washed-up heroes of yesteryear, Hollywood once again saves Burt Reynolds from the bread-line. Burt’s face looms like a Halloween mask, candy corn replacing the teeth that Loni punched out.

And then there’s Willie Nelson who took time out from repaying the IRS to deliver the worst jokes this side of George Lopez.

My favorite part of this movie was when the Duke boys visited the university in Atlanta to get a drill core analyzed.

Let me repeat myself: the Duke boys visited the university in Atlanta to get a drill core analyzed. Before my very eyes this movie became CSI: Hazzard County.

Instead they should have had Willie Nelson’s blood analyzed, because every time that guy has a blood test science adds a new element to the periodic table.

Bo and Luke drive the General Lee. Me, I drive the General John Abizaid, and it can go from Mosul to Basrah in 60 seconds, leaving my wife’s car, the General John Kashvili, in the dust. Yee-Haw!

This is certainly not your father’s Dukes of Hazzard. Nope. This is the version where the Dukes shoot flaming arrows from the speeding General Lee. If only the cops had been armed with slingshots and crossbows instead of guns it might have been a fair fight.

As it is, “fair” is the very best thing you can say about this dad gum movie.

Time to sleep off this sumabitch. I have a hillbilly headache.


Photos Copyright ©2005 Warner Bros. Pictures

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