Gather round, chilluns, and I'll spin ye the tale of the worst western I ever did see. Now back in '01 there was a weaselly country music performer with a receding hairline named Dwight Yoakam (I shit you not) who got a strange notion in his stringy head that he was by rights a Film-maker. So he corralled up a herd of his celebrity pals--including his weaselly gal (Bridget Fonda), her confused Pa (Peter Fonda), a convicted pudwhacker (Paul Reubens), a freak from outer space (Billy Bob Thornton) and a turn-of-the-century stud (Vince Vaughn)--and he got 'em all high on locoweed pie, dressed 'em up in cowboy and cowgal gear, and started shooting.
Now I'd be lying to you, friends, if I said I could recollect all the horsedroppings that Dwight got on film turd by stinking turd--but I do recall that Dwight was the Sheriff, and all the wimmens always wanted to jump Dwight's jimmy. But all the other menfolks' crotches were too bruised and bullet-ridden to be of use. And Dwight was wearing a tablecloth around his neck for most of the proceedings. And the plot makes out that the Sheriff's whole body is supposed to have been dead all along--not just his brain. And in closing, I'd like to say there was a scene in a balloon where Sheriff Dwight told sweet Bridget that sometimes he misses his killed family so much it makes his insides hurt, and then they rubbed their weaselly faces one all over t'other--but that might just have been something I nightmared up later.