To say that God Bless America is not for everyone is akin to proclaiming free-spirited voters tend to take a liking to Ron Paul. But frankly, I'm not quite sure who this piece of trash is intended for.
Is it for midnight screenings where sage cinephiles can hold impassioned discussions about its perspicacity?
Is it for learned movie critics who find the film's glorification of violence to be an allegorical delight - proclaiming the work as: an acutely-spirited observation about the times in which we live?
Or is it simply a repugnantly-loathsome, self-indulgent, wrathful outlet for writer/director/eons-ago comedian Bobcat Goldthwait to wax poetic about how our nation's priorities are out of whack and it's high time someone started capping those who are bringing us down?
That's the one.
A hybrid of Hobo with a Shotgun and Falling Down with a copious dose of Natural Born Killers to up the trying-so-very-hard-to-shock factor, this is the tale of Frank (Joel Murray), a 9-to-5 insurance schlub who's flat-out fed up with America's fall into the moral and cultural abyss and dude's not going to take it anymore.
Upon receiving an unceremonious boot from his work cubicle - coupled with a fatal brain cancer diagnosis - Frank swipes his neighbor's "Bumblebee" edition Camaro and hits the road on a .45-caliber Death Wish crusade against the litany of reality show losers who created all the insipidity.
Frank's bloodthirsty blitzkrieg begins by blowing away a brat who browbeat her parents on TV for getting her the wrong birthday ride. Soon after, the loser finds a Bonnie to his Clyde in the form of a teen named Roxy (Tara Lynne Barr).
From obnoxious moviegoers to Bill O'Reilly and Simon Cowell clones, the twosome go on a cathartic killing spree, mowing down anyone deemed to be rude or inconsiderate.
In Goldthwait's vengeful fantasy, a bullet to the brain is the less reprehensible offense.
For a movie that purports to be a statement about how mean-spirited and crass we've become, Goldthwait has no qualms piling on.
Blowing a baby away with a 12 gauge - real or imagined - is about as bottom of the barrel as it gets.