Review of Jack Frost (1998) by Jason D — 26 Apr 2008

There were two mistakes that I made. The first one was not specifying to my mother exactly which Jack Frost film I was wanting (the one where Jack Frost is actually the snowman possessed by the soul of a serial killer who rapes and kills a pre-boob job Shannon Elizabeth with his carrot dick).

My second mistake was caving in and watching this sappy roller coaster ride of childish hilarity and shenanigans that couldn't even rival Spongebob Squarepants. Michael Keaton dies and comes back as a snowman to spend some last minute time with his son.

Whatever. The movie is lame. It hurt to watch a film where Kelly Preston doesn't pull out her big, beautiful, untouched by husband John Travolta tits AND where one of the most brutal men alive, Henry Rollins, spends the entire film screaming like a little bitch every time he sees a walking, talking snowman.

C'mon motherfucker, you had to have seen worse when you were on acid. I poop on Jack Frost, the child's tale.