Shank my skin and gore my liver. Impale my head and drain my blood. Crush my ribcage and suck out my heart. Crack open my skull and smash my brain into a gummy paste. Human beings are the ultimate of follies. Continually thinking that their maniacal dance upon Earth's soils have merit and meaning. They cannot hear the literal clock just beneath their epidermal packaging: The literal biological clock. Each beat of the heart brings them closer to death. To shield their brains from their imminent wasting away into the abyss of inevetibility, they have exploited their need for violence and their need for blood. They salivate, they drool, and they foam at the mouth. They howl for your blood. Within the bubbling pits that make up their minds, they have forged torture. Pain. Doom. Destruction. Daddy Day Camp is an instrument of torture. No different than those used by the warriors on the battlefield onto their enemies. It conditions you so that your rationality disappears completely, and then it strikes. Fred Savage brings out the hounds, the troops, the snakes; each and every weapon at his arsenal. Blood. Gore. Gore. Blood. Bloor. Bloor. By the time all 93 minutes have elapsed, you are no longer an audience member. You are something more. You are a victim.
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