Truth in Beer Bongs, Garbage & Advertising
Mike Judge’s Idiocracy Goes Tubin’ on Humankind’s Slippery Slope

By Sven Barth

The theatre layout went as follows: Me in L.A., popcorn in my lap, cherry Icee in my hand, (now-smashed) Junior Mints in my back pocket and nobody else. Things were looking pretty sweet. As I figured out how to scrape out the Junior Mints from the inside of the box, Mike Judge’s Idiocracy started. I slowed down on the popcorn-attack, let out a little groan and stared up at Luke Wilson’s perfectly put-upon-looking face fading into focus. That’s it for the play-by-play.

Office Space is a certified suburban-dorm room-etc. classic. Mere mention of Beavis and Butthead gets anyone shouting, “Oh yeah, but that show was so genius because of…” as those listening nod like rods, and so forth. Where does the latest, long-awaited and oh-so-delicately-not-hyped installment from Mr. Judge leave us?

Idiocracy was made for watching on your TV in between beer bongs.

Luke Wilson and a hooker save Future America from itself in a world where the nation’s president is the guy from White Chicks who does the robot. They seemingly snagged the production designer from Dude, Where’s My Car and the costumes are retardo. Seriously classic scenes are sprinkled throughout this totally digestible donut. Some are so classic that even the theater’s usher, who came to make sure I wasn’t bootlegging, taking a pee in the aisle or whacking off into my popcorn, sat down to enjoy one before continuing on pecker patrol. I’m pretty sure the scene playing was when robot-prez flicks everyone off, while drinking a beer and driving a three-wheeled motorcycle in a parade.

Here’s the main problem. This future world portrays a brain-dead population completely submerged in garbage and advertising. This is the target audience for the film once it hits stores. It’s too ridiculous while it’s off being clever for its own good. Being an astute moviegoer, I kept searching for the overall cleverness, one cleverly disguised behind piles of cleverness drenched in scores of humping jokes. I remained unhindered. As the credits rolled and I brushed the popcorn from my shirt, I still hadn’t gotten any closer to the inside joke I thought I could share with Mike Judge on my way out of the theatre.

While I was riding in the elevator, my company included a Teva-sporting, Jamba Juice-sipping couple and a Korean lady who had just bought a bulldog puppy. Here’s how it went:

Couple (lady): “Oh, how cute!”

Couple (guy): “What kind of a dog is that?”

Korean (lady): “Eeengrish Bulldog.”

Couple (lady): “Can I touch it?”

[After a bit of light petting the Korean lady got off the elevator. The door closed.]

Couple (lady): “How cute was that dog, honey?”

Couple (guy): “Huh. Probably costs like 2,000 dollars. Heh heh. Christ. Are we on three or four honey?”

Couple (lady): “Um...”

Couple (guy): “I think it’s this one.”