Spuds would have kicked the crap out of every one of these talking chihuahuas and then surfed home, sharing the front of the board with a six-pack of Bud Lite. But no. The makers of this movie were smart. They bided their time and sat on this idea until Spuds was dead. And then they waited another fifteen years just to be certain he wasn't coming back. (The longest recorded dog haunting lasted twelve years in Nepal.)
It's not that I hope every person who sees this movie gets ball cancer because I do. (I think ovaries can be considered "lady balls" so save your comments.) It's just that I have dogs and if they ever spoke to each other, it would consist of "That's my Milkbone" or "Stop rimming my ass, that's gross." They would certainly not be rapping with a choreographed dance sequence. Everyone involved in this movie should have their faces rubbed into the movie screen while the film is playing being told, "No! No! No! Bad!" (Is anyone else singing Lisa Loeb now?)
This movie's going to earn more than Wall-E, isn't it?