Snakes on a Bladder

It’s been a while since I broke out the pee test, my movie rating system that basically ascribes a movie’s quality to the length of time needed at the urinal after exiting the theater. The longer the duration, the better the flick. Suffice it to say that, while watching “Snakes on a Plane” on Saturday night, my bladder was rarin’ from the moment that first snake struck that first woman’s boob during the mile-high-club scene. By the time of the second bathroom snake attack, it was positively throbbing.

I know, I know, too much info. Like the brilliant conceit of the movie, as executed in a full-length feature film, it sounds like a little too much of a good thing. But I’m here to tell you that — despite what naysayers Ana and Katie will claim — “Snakes on a Plane” is wonderfully, stomach-spasmingly, 5:20-pee-minutes-long good. Not all that funny, I admit (though the guys in back of us were enormous Keenan Thompson fans, and cheered for the last ten minutes straight as he landed the plane), and not enough to get my fellow moviegoers to throw gummie worms at the screen (a la Rocky Horror Picture Show), but still worthy of all the praise the Joel Siegel, the New York Times, and Entertainment Weekly have been heaping upon it.

Incidentally, if you don’t see me writing any movie comments for a while, there’s a reason: Seeing “SoaP” unwittingly put me five movies in the hole with Ana. It’s an accounting I don’t fully agree with, but I’m not appealing until something else hits the theaters worth seeing. Until then, I’ll suck it up and watch my five “Trust the Man”s. My bladder could use the rest.