Adam Sandler movies.
I submit to you: Bulletproof, Big Daddy, Little Nicky, Mr. Deeds, Anger Management, Click, 50 First Dates, Chuck & Larry, You Don’t Mess with the Zohan, and whatever else he’s inflicted on innocent, misguided viewers.
Ick, ick, ick.
I think he’s the worst, but most eleven-year-old boys love him. It’s a great divide. I went through it with my oldest boy, and somehow we’ll survive this stage with Gavin, too. It won’t be pretty. I’ll try to look away.
An aside: You know how many, many children’s book authors claim to have “never grown up.” I read that all the time in interviews, hear it in comments. They say things like, “I’m still an eleven-year-old at heart!”
Oh dear Lord.
That’s so not me. The Sandler movies would kill me.
Conversely, I tell people I was born with a rake in my hand to shake at the other babies in the nursery.