The Hoarder

Oh hey there.  How’s it going?  How was your weekend?  Did you roll around in your bed clothes and get drunk on white wine specifically because it had a bunny on the label?  Because I sure did.  Oh it was a real time.

What I also did this past weekend was watch fucking strange movies with the DIAG goof troop and one on the list was The Hoarder, a 2015 slop fest filmed in London, by a German company, starring entirely forgettable American actors.  Sounds like a real snore (it was).


Functioning with a barely coherent plot, this movie is actually good fodder for sitting around getting super drunk and watching, but beyond constantly wishing Mischa Barton would shut up and take her gear off and show us dem titties, there wasn’t much else going for it.

Premise goes that Mischa Barton’s character Ella believes her likely entirely forgettable white Cornflakes box boyfriend is cheating on her because he has rented a storage locker to put some of her shit away because she’s cluttering up their flat.  So like any crazy female she decides that talking about her feelings is for pussies and fat people and decides to enlist the help of her “crazy” friend (I’ll get back to this) and stage a late night break in…  by taking the keycard and letting herself into the chain storage facility.


So about the crazy thing – her friend is only “crazy” because she likes to party and is painted as a bit of “rocker” chick what with the slouchie beanie and leather jacket combo in summer (seriously, why?), but beyond this, she’s the one who reasonably tries to talk Ella out of breaking into her boyfriend’s storage locker.  If anything, I would say the broad who is cuckoo bananas is Ella.  My boyfriend’s cheating on me because he finally rented a storage locker so he can have some breathing room after I fill our flat with candles from Anthroplogie and shitty clothes from H&M…  yeah, he’s clearly the problem and it totally isn’t me at all..  Like.  The thinking there is just really something isn’t it.

Anywho, these two idiots decide to stage their “heist” and go to the Ezzee storage facility and take a trip down the basement.  Also, at this point can I just say the “crazy” friend is wearing one heck of a fright wig?  I noticed how shitty it looked and was girl..  u ratchet.  If you’re buying your wig and the five and dime, maybe you should pay like two more dollars and see where that takes you.


Also.  I might be just a little country bumpkin, but what’s the purpose of extensions?

Someone comment below to let me know.  I no do makeup and beauty products well.

Anyways these two doofuses roll on down to the creepy basement of this storage facility, which might I add is fucking packed for it being like 10:50pm on a Saturday night..  Like, there’s some dude there, theres a married couple fighting about bed linens, there’s at least two hookers, a hippie..  like all the place was missing was a jambox and it would have been like a Trailer Park Boys episode, outside the King of Donair.


Thats actually the King of Donair from Trailer Park Boys.  I guess people actually used to go there after the bars shut down and it looks RAD.  In my town there’s a McDonalds downtown that used to be open 24/7 and if you went in between 12AM-3AM it would be quite the rager going on.  They eventually stopped being open during this time, simply due to the fuckery.

Anyways.  The ezzee storage facility or whatever is kind of like this place.

The two dinguses go downstairs and go inside a creepy storage locker where a ghoul with his lips stapled shut kill the shit out of her friend and Ella bolts.  While she’s running away she fucking whips off her purse and chucks it..  like..  how is that what you would be thinking?

Like..  if your phone is in there?  I dunno.  Mischa Barton is a terrible actress and I didn’t see her jammers in this flick so she can fuck off.  Acting is hard.

Anyways, she runs away from the ghoul and up an elevator shaft and right into the arms of a cop who doesn’t look like a sketchy rapist at all.


I’m either a rapist or I need HIV medicine…  but you’ll never know

Seriously that dude is like the only piece of man meat in this fucking shitpile beyond the creepy desk ginger and the mouth staples guy and I’m gonna be frank with you here, I’d probably bang the mouth staples dude over anyone else.  Jesus.

Mine and Scott’s faces when Rigby entered a fugue state and somehow that syphilis patient was attractive:


The cop is jamming out with some clam named Willow who looks like she’s been smoking a lot of reefer and rolled around in a vintage store dumpster.  Shes got the heroin jitters so she goes into her locker and takes some morphine and they leave her.


escaping from a crazed monster?  I need a pick me up

Cop dude eventually reveals he isn’t really much of a good guy and that he was actually going to rob the storage facility (is this how Storage Wars starts)?

Anyways since I don’t need to spoon feed you this pablum of a plot, we know that this dick faces off with the monster thing and has the living shit killed out of him, and so does the hippie bitch who ends up giving herself a Propofol injection accidentally?


What can we say here, Willow really liked the sauce, and also apparently had the same doctor as Michael Jackson, shit.

Shortly after this its revealed that the actual killer, “hoarder” is the creepy desk ginger dude who abducts people from their shitty lives and smashes out their teeth, staples their lips shut and feeds them a nutrient paste to “keep them safe” from the world and their possessions apparently.


Also turns out that Ella or whatever was an escort??  She was going to the storage locker to dig out her creepy fuck log of all the dirty shit she did with her clients.

Tax season really is a bitch.

Anyways, she ends up with her fucking lips stapled shut in the ginger dude’s creepy fuck palace, and truly, she really needed it.  As soon as Mischa Barton was no longer speaking, the movie got like 20% better, you know like when you’re super drunk getting a hot dog with mayo at a really regrettable hot dog stand strategically placed outside bars alongside that one dead eyed woman who sells flowers to prospective drunken one night stands, and you know you’ve given up hope of being gifted a flower and you’ve decided that processed cancer meat and mayo is gonna take you home, and then looking down into the gutter underneath your ill fitting aldo shoes, you see, $5, and somehow it makes the night better knowing you can throw that at the bus driver like you own the joint and eat your hot dog like a baller…

Yeah that really went off the rails there.


K anyways, Ella’s husband or whatever rolls up to the storage place and somehow is like, “Yeah my hot ass girlfriend took her hot ass to parts unknown..  who knows..” and then just tells the dude to sell the shit, and the dude is all, “yeah man we can do that and I’ll send you the money.”

K.  What kind of fucking operation is that.

Here’s my old shit, give me money?  I don’t think storage lockers work that way.

Scotty’s momma used to work at a storage facility (she didn’t kill people there in a hoard collection to our knowledge), and yeah when people left their shit behind, the storage facility would sell it and keep the money.  Call it a fine for being a fucking deadbeat.

Anyways this movie didn’t make any sense, and gentlemen, if you’re ever gonna marry Mischa Barton just remember she’s probably a hooker and will only be tolerable when she’s got her mouth stapled shut in a storage locker somewhere.




That got dark.

Eh.  I’ve said worse things, I guess.


Oh also, if you’re gonna watch this movie..  don’t.  I’ve seen episodes of hoarders that are way scarier and at least more entertaining.

-Robin Goodfellow.


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