This begs for a parody of Tonight’s the Night, rewritten as a sleazy 70s cock rock song about gettin’ some. I blew my wad on those Jonathan Rosenbaum parodies, so somebody else do it. Look at the lyrics, it won’t be that hard:

Bruce Berry was a working man
He used to load that Econoline van
A sparkle was in his eye
But his life was in his hands
And people, let me tell you
Late at night when the people were gone
He used to pick up my guitar
And sing a song in a shaky voice
That was real as the day was long

I didn’t remember either of those comments on Prindle or George’s sites from the musician’s relatives.

**> Couldn’t you have waited till April Fools’ Day? **

Well, it emerged organically from the conversation, so I had to strike while the iron was hot.

> You didn’t get AI to write that stuff for you, did you?

No, or it would have gone more like this:

_Title: “The Flintstones: A Bedrock of Misery”

In a cinematic landscape cluttered with intellectual desolation, ‘The Flintstones’ emerges as a colossal boulder of banality, a film so bereft of substance that even the Neanderthals depicted in it would struggle to find a semblance of intelligence. It’s a prehistoric tragedy that makes one yearn for a meteor to put us all out of our misery.

In this caveman concoction, the cinematic nuances are as extinct as the dinosaurs supposedly living alongside our titular protagonists. To dissect this fossilized failure, let’s invoke the literary giants of our time, Bruce Coville and Henry Miller. While they may seem like an odd pairing, much like the disparate elements in ‘The Flintstones,’ their work serves as a poignant reminder of the vast chasm between quality literature and the cinematic quagmire before us.

Bruce Coville, known for his whimsical and imaginative children’s books, creates worlds that captivate young minds with rich storytelling and meaningful life lessons. ‘The Flintstones,’ on the other hand, seems intent on crushing any hint of creativity beneath the weight of its preposterous puns and dinosaur-sized plot holes. Coville’s narratives are like a delicate dance, gracefully pirouetting through the corridors of children’s imagination, while ‘The Flintstones’ stumbles around like a drunken dinosaur in tap shoes.

And then there’s the juxtaposition with Henry Miller, the brazen and unapologetic author whose work explores the raw, unfiltered facets of human existence. Miller’s prose is a visceral journey into the human psyche, challenging societal norms and exposing the raw underbelly of life. ‘The Flintstones,’ meanwhile, does a disservice to the very concept of storytelling by reducing itself to a cavalcade of clichés and tired humor, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer trying to crack a coconut.

While Coville and Miller may be worlds apart in their literary endeavors, their collective brilliance underscores the magnitude of ‘The Flintstones’ failure. The film attempts to straddle the line between childlike wonder and adult humor, only to fall into the chasm of mediocrity. It’s a cinematic debacle that not even the most erudite minds could salvage.

In the end, ‘The Flintstones’ becomes a cautionary tale, a reminder that even the brightest stars in literature cannot rescue a film drowning in its own lack of wit and imagination. Bedrock, it seems, is not only a geological formation but also an apt descriptor for the depths to which this film sinks. In the grand tapestry of cinema, ‘The Flintstones’ is a pebble, easily forgotten amidst the vast landscape of truly exceptional storytelling._