Open Hate Mail, Part 2

Ernie, Ernie, Ernie Reyes, Jr.,

I never thought it would be you. And I would say this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you, but that's not really how I want it to be. I suffered through "The Ultimate Fight," your directorial debut. You deserve your obscurity, this letter of open hatred, and so much more.

Now, there's nothing wrong with being a stunt turtle or even taking a turn as a pizza delivery guy in "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II." There's something a little wrong about releasing a hip-hop album titled, "Asia's Last Dragon," but I let that go, too. Charm has many different shapes, right?

But your movie? Let's just say that if I had anything even resembling a crush on you, it would be over now. The plot is indecipherable. The characters, at their best, are flat stereotypes, and at their worst, they are mentally disabled. The script is cliched, boring, offensive, and stupid. I didn't know a script could be all these things at once. Here's a sample of "dialogue" that you (and Manu Tapou) wrote--

SOME DUDE: ....mother[screw]ers!
SOME OTHER DUDE: I [screw] mothers too.
ERNIE REYES, SR:...Let's see you [screw] your mother.

What? Have you ever seen a movie before?

And why is everyone wearing windsuits? Why is the villain a cross-dressing lunatic who called Hitler? Hitler, Ernie. You named your villain Hitler, and you thought it was clever.

I despise you.

I despise you, and I once felt for you a pure, gentle, unassuming love. I adored you when I was five, and the fact of it didn't change for eight years. That's seven years and eight months longer than the union between Renee Zellweger and Kenny Chesney lasted. I own "Red Sonja" and "Surf Ninjas," not because they're awesome but because you are in them. You used to kick ass. Now, you are an ass.

So, this is it. We're done. I think I don't ever want to see you again. You're short. You can't act. You can't write. Your tae kwon do is stale. And you're a Scientologist. I should have cut you loose--completely loose--in 1994.

Shut It Your Face,
Sam