In the realm of charming, female protagonists, I find none more laudable than that of Anne Shirley. Meagan Follows’ portrayal of the endearing Gables bitch is nothing short of exquisite. Orphaned and taken in by two euthanasia-worthy tea-bagging cuntsacks, she queefs touching, brilliant, pithy afterbirths such as, “My life is a perfect graveyard of hopes,” while remaining fondly feather-brained.
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Although acting in numerous piss-ass failures such as Hockey Night, I forgive Follows completely, dismissing her “Straight-To-TV” STDs (even Sin of Innocence). Anne is a scintillating tale of female empowerment that liberates young and old alike, whereas Hockey Night plays more like a relentless rendition of the opening credit sequence of Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers.
Colleen Dewhurst‘s performance as spinster Marilla Cuthbert was pure wonderment for me. At first harsh toward Anne, the relationship becomes increasingly endearing, though initially obscured behind a shit-veil of pragmatic sternness and ungodly sub-zero cuntish behavior.
Richard Farnsworth plays the role of lovable old granddad Mathew as perfectly as Sasha Grey plays the lovable, young ass-licking whore in such jerkoffingly awesome flicks as Cumfart Cocktails #5. His character will warm the cockles of your ordinarily emotionless, flat, obtuse heart- too bad he fucking dies at the end (that was a spoiler, you cum-twat- if you haven’t already seen this heartwarming family fare). Kind but reserved, Farnsworth gradually opens up to the precocious, young bitch Anne. Marilla throws a shit-fest over this, but shit finally settles down. No one can resist the sparkling spark-plug that is Anne Shirley.
The infinitely foul, fecal-like performance of Jonathan Crombie as Gilbert Blythe does not rob much of anything from this stellar mini-series. Make no mistake; it remains about as raw as a barebacked, gangbanged vagina. This is sheer sentimentality at its best, drenched in inspiration and tear-driven bliss like a massive bukkake session to the face; in other words, you’re gonna need plenty of Kleenex you bitch-ass mother (like when Mathew Cuthbert dies of a heart attack at the end; yeah, that’s how he dies, fuck). Plus there are tons and tons of enchanting sequences, like when Blythe yanks one of Anne’s thick-ass, red-ass braids (okay, so there’s an orange flavor in them bitches too). Take that, Raggedy-Anne (of Green Gables).
Hagood Hardy‘s music doesn’t suck too much anus, and the cinematography of Rene Ohashi could be deemed sanctimoniously not dick-maimed. Kevin Sullivan as director wields a sublime aptitude in his craft, blessing our souls with a touching piece of Made-For-TV. The costumes, sets, and overall rendering of our early 20th century were positively bravura. Accept this Gable up your ass, minions, and be filled with innumerable joy juices. This is one Cumfart Cocktail you shouldn’t dismiss…
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With a slight tug, my bathrobe flutters to the ground, revealing my sexy, pubed-out chest and pregnant belly. We should all hot-tub tonight and drink a few, discussing the vicissitudes of life. Oh yes, and then have massive, massive sex.
Lucifer, can you please cum back to hell and be my top? You know how desperately I like to play the role of giant, grizzly bottom for you. I miss you, even to the point of betraying my own sensibilities with this ShamWow rag. We’re both squirters, neither being ignorant of ShamWow’s wonderment on man-juice (the brown variety especially). Let’s not be foolish, love. Love, Billy Mays.
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