Like so many of Hollywood's youth oriented comedies, this is like a mound of dog turd flavoured with honey; the crass vulgarities are sweetened by add-on humanity. But just like dog turd with honey on it, the mess is unappetising
[The] usual Frankensteinien assemblage of tittering about bodily fluids, casual homophobia, random emotionless sex acts, and other such expressions of apparently unoutgrowable male adolescent anxiety that passes for American comedy these days.
Rudd and Scott aren't stretching any new muscles, but Rudd's glum disaffection and Scott's bozo bonhomie do gel with a satisfying stickiness. They handle the gaping innuendo with such delicacy we know that they know they're better than this.