Two Can Play That Game: Review By B. Alan Orange

I'd rather have a Pitbull jack me off with its teeth. Watching my roommate flirt with that tattooed midget-beast in the living room is like watching two bull rhinos go at it headfirst. Did she buy that fake uber-valley accent at Hot Topic on discount, along with her hot-pink hair dye? And what's with his aggressive, king-$h!t putdowns that only "seem" to make him feel better about himself? They banter back and forth in some weird, sadomasochistic dance to the bed. It's enough to drive me into a hole. I can't hurry the dirt over my face fast enough. This scenario is coming in worse than a massage train at the Hesher house. Every story ends with me as Third-Wheel; sitting in that backseat watching uninspired couples play slap-hand over the radio. It's enough to make me want to put a gun in my mouth. No matter how many times I promise not to set myself in this position, I can't escape it. Call it my destiny. The loud, irritating ring of the phone comes as a heavy-handed savior. It's Movieweb with an offer I can't refuse. Feet hurry me past the door without question. Who cares what they're sending me to this time? A chair in the dark will save B. Alan Orange from any savage coupling about to play itself out against stained carpet.