I have not yet partaken of Transformers, even though everyone I know seems to assume that my personality is hard-wired to salivate at even the prospect of giant battles waging CGI battle.

This is true, but I do have some sense of restraint. Like a good Pixar fan, I went and saw Ratatouille instead (damn you, Google, for your smug, “Did you mean to type, ‘Ratatouille?” Yes. I fucking did. Are you happy?). I liked the rodent-making-peasant-meal tale, even though I had to wonder how a movie about French cuisine and the alienation of the elite genius is kiddie fare. Kids in the audience I saw the movie with were a little bit restless during the talky/foodie portions and one kid behind me had a running dialogue, as if the kid were recording their own commentary track to sell on teh w4bz.

Neither here nor there, but I was a little skeptical about whether Meany would be interested in any kind of human female. But then I remembered his mantra, “Boobs are boobs, Bobbo,” and it all became clear.