FAST FIVE (Vin Diesel, White Trash; 2011)

The fifth installment of any franchise is usually more offensive than prison rape or the schizophrenic who sits on my corner screaming obscenities. His eyes are always looking in two different directions. It's as though he's adapted a stronger survival instinct to alert himself more quickly to approaching predators, or he's overmedicated and can't focus in fucking straight line. Either way, it bothers TMJ and frequently ruins his appetite. I think that the schizo resonates with my primal brain like fat people do. It isn't that I have a problem with you sucking down Twix until your heart pumps like the faint beep of a navy radar detecting an approaching warship. It's that instinctually, I believe your fat ass is going to slow down the hunting group and get us all eaten by a dinosaur.

Luckily, Fast Five is only filled with people in peak physical condition. There isn't a moment of reality in this fantastic crime caper. Except when Jordana Brewester tells Paul Walker she's pregnant. That was disturbing. There's nothing cool about babies when you're on the run. Actually, there's nothing cool about babies when you're stationary. In all seriousness though, if you're evading dealers in the favelas of Brazil with some first tri-mester baggage, you need to fast-five your ass to the clinic.

Fast Five has everything you need to make yourself feel good about driving like an asshole. Though TMJ has no real rating system, he gives this little number a "Shit Yeah."