Turning and turning in the widening Escalade
The Turtle cannot hear the Turtler
Things fall apart; the studio cannot hold;
Vince isn’t doing the movie.
Dope shit is loosed upon the Strip,
The tequila-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
Hot chicks, the kind you would totally swipe right on, are going hard on a yacht;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity that Vinny should direct this one, bro.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the second Entourage trailer is at hand.

The second Entourage trailer! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image of Andrew Dice Clay
Troubles my sight; a waste of desert sand known as L.A.;
A shape with sausage body and head of a Piven;
Adrian Grenier’s gaze blank and pitiless as the sun;
Kevin Dillon is moving his slow thighs, while all about him
E is having problems with Sloan.

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The sick beat drops again, but now I know
That eight seasons of aimlessly dicking around a shallow facsimile of the movie industry, then hitting the club,
Were vexed to this full-length nightmare by a rocking Wahlberg.
(“Oh YEAHHHHH,” the Wahlberg rocks. “Oh YEAHHHHHH”)
And what sloppily conceived beast, its baffling 90 minutes come round at last,
Slouches toward cinemas to be born?

It’s E’s baby. E’s having a baby, bros and baby bros;
The dark hour of Entourage is upon us.

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