Imagine a seven-year-relationship where two people -- only attractive by the standards of People magazine and Entertainment Tonight -- meet in airports, parks, and apartment complexes, all the while giggling, laughing, placing straws and glasses up their noses, and occasionally having perfunctory sex. Now add games like “mutual silent treatment,” where the first one to make a noise is, like, a total loser, and then the other pretends she is choking, only he’s hip because he has a deaf brother, so he can, like, not talk for days. Finally, we can top it off with naked photographs in the desert, and sips of beer by moonlight, where nods are given, amorous looks are exchanged, and human speech is suspended in favor of hyena-like squeals. These days, it indeed might pass for romance.

Ashton Kutcher, huh? Is this his stab at leading man status?

A stab, perhaps, but an utter failure on all counts, save reproducing a gagging sensation in the viewer that approximates asphyxia. Oh he’s dreamy and stuff, what with that hair all out of place, and that basset hound look brought to near perfection and his muscular farmer-boy physic; but he’s never been more unlikable, and I’m including each and every monotonous minute of Punk’d. Here, he’s Oliver -- a 30ish entrepreneur who starts an internet business called diaperrush.com, only to watch it fail unexpectedly, despite the fact that it just happens to be the worst idea in the history of commerce. He loses love (some Asian broad who leaves him with the old standby “You’re never here....I can’t do this anymore”), only to gain it again with Amanda Peet’s Emily, only to lose it and gain it many more times in the next several years. It’s a romance for those seeking eternal justification for offing a lover, or walking the fuck out of a marriage that drones on and on and on. Generations past had Cary Grant in a tux; we have Ashton Kutcher in his boxers in the back of a station wagon.

So that Asian chick -- is that the best line in the film?

Peet has several gems of her own, including this small attempt at conversation after first meeting Kutcher -- She: “What sign are you?” He: “Cancer.” She: “Strike three.” He also utters the nugget, “You only get one chance to make a first impression.” And I think they once talked about something or other on New Year’s Eve. Honestly, one would be more inspired to find stimulating conversation in the midst of a smoky, blood-soaked battlefield, teeming with headless infants and the shattered torsos of expired grandmothers that have lost their vaginas to the cutlass, than any random five minutes with these people. In a good mood? Snuffed out like the hopeful candle of a Ukrainian orphan if they merely passed you by. Found a good job, married your dream girl, and even hit the lottery for good measure? You’d still slice open your scrotum, fish out your nads, and hurl them but one second ahead of the rest of your shattered soul as you flew from the nearest bridge. No two people in the history of the medium have had less to say to each other, and yet this shit drones on for 104 minutes.

Taryn Manning?

Quiet!! Do you want Jonny to have a heart attack?

(She sucked. Ass.)

So why in the fuck did I see Ashton using sign language?

He has a deaf brother, asshole. Didn’t you read the first paragraph? To my surprise, the deaf dude was the most normal person in the movie, as he settled down, had kids, and seemed to make a pretty good living. Moreover, he was sweet, sensitive, and a perfect gentleman. Needless to say, portraying the handicapped as anything less than bitter, suicidal, alienated, and lonely meets with my strong disapproval, but here’s to the screenwriter for having the nerve to play it straight. Fine, the deaf dude was a saint, but he was harmless, and we only had to see his rotten kids once.

But you learned something, right? Something so terrifying that you’re reluctant to repeat it in mixed company?

At a sales meeting to acquire venture capital, Ashton says that 240,000 babies are born each and every day. I’m not sure of the source or even if that number is reliable, but if it’s close, nothing more shocking and disturbing will ever cross my line of sight again. Fine, there’s still a chance that Lynndie England’s birthing video will turn up on some obscure website, but odds are, this will be the nadir of my life. While there are numerous reasons for being terrified of such a strain on our resources, the most depressing fact of all is that even if we pushed Planned Parenthood to a Henry Ford-style level of efficiency, we’ll never get rid of all the little buggers. My dream of an adults-only utopia, while fervent and alive in my mind’s eye, remains but a pipe dream; always on hold for a better day that will never come.

So do these lovebirds finally get together?

I guess, only given the history of the pair, it is unlikely they will survive living together. Everything is great right now, but as they’ve only fucked, sang in the car, and talked about diapers, the realities of day-to-day living will certainly challenge those with little capacity for elevated thought. From what we see, they may even be illiterate, if not mildly retarded. I say mildly only because Peet does open a gallery for her photographs.

But you’re missing the point -- they couldn’t love anyone else because they were meant for each other. You deny that possibility?

Meant for each other? Perhaps, but only in the same way as retards and velvet, cows and BBQ pits, or senior citizens and carbon monoxide are meant for each other. Movie love died with Nick and Nora; the rest is just filler.