Forget an intro. Forget a little quip. This just deserves to get splashed about like a water balloon full of battery acid at a garden party — no regard for anyone’s cashmere sweaters.

With an opening so unhinged you’d think it personally financed its own production by selling plutonium to strangers in a Denny’s parking lot, this film — whose title I will not repeat every single time I want to reference it, because I have better things to do with my limited time on this cursed earth, like staring at walls or counting the number of times my neighbor mows his lawn in one week — goes through every possible coin-flipped, schizoid, whiteboard-covered-in-red-string ramble you could possibly imagine only to land on top of a world so diabolically dreary, on a scale so flamboyantly perplexing, that it ripples intense patterns of cosmic paranoia down your spine — hidden behind the laughter of someone who knows it’s so true it’s painful. The kind of true that makes you check if your phone is listening to you. (It is.)

Gone is the “what does this mean” and the “Ah, I get it.” That’s for cowards. That’s for people who like their narratives served on a silver platter with a side of obvious. Instead, you sit back — you sip on something, anything really, preferably alcoholic but I’m not here to judge your coping mechanisms — and you simply enjoy whatever the hell we, as a community, will eventually categorize this open can of who-hashed cranial tickled lamb sauce. Existential sci-fi? Comedy? A cry for help? All of the above? The council is still out, and frankly, I don’t think they’re coming back.

Fine. Fine! I’ll say it. Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die — there, happy? That’s the first and last time I’m typing that, I swear on that Giracat? Gircattfe? exceeds expectations by making sure you can’t have any in the first place. We’ve transcended ratings here, people. We’ve moved into a new dimension of cinematic consumption where stars are meaningless and the only metric that matters is how many times you yell “WHAT??” at the screen.

Sam Rockwell pours his heart and soul into this thing — and sometimes salt… on a Twinkie… in what can only be described as a bombastic, self-deprecating tale of dystopian epilepsy. If nothing I’ve said so far made any sense, then good. We’re on the same page. Actually, we’re not even in the same book. We’re in different libraries in different countries speaking different languages, and somehow, we’re still closer to understanding each other than you are to predicting what happens next in this film. This one came to play, and let me tell you, you are not ready for that fastball. You’re not even ready for the warm-up toss. Go home. Train. Come back in a few years. Maybe then you’ll be prepared. (or brainwashed, who knows)

Sam Rockwell — “The Man from the Future,” I shit you not, that is literally his character’s name. Rounds up one hell of a tag team. The toughest, craziest, most delightfully unhinged band of role-playing knuckleheads you can imagine, all assembled to join him on an adventure. What adventure, you ask? Well, stop asking and maybe I’ll tell you, my god. The impatience.

I’m joking. It’s to save the world.

Obviously.

And who else better than a mother who just lost her son to “Another Tuesday”? played out like it’s a goddamn podcast episode or a recurring segment on late-night television, not a dark and comically foul mockery of teen violence in schools that whizzes by so close to home you’ll find yourself checking your own front door for bullet holes. The whole thing is so desaturated I thought for a moment I’d lost my sense of smell for orange. Juno Temple plays Susan like a last-legged leaflet blowing in a strong wind — hanging on for dear life, fluttering with desperate hope, only to receive a blessed portion of bird shit that knocks it clean off its trajectory, sending it tumbling down a void of spiraling, cartoonishly nefarious rabbit holes that would make Alice wonder if maybe she should’ve just stayed home.

Let’s not detract from our humbly broken couple of who knows how long — forgot to give me that information, huh, “Man from Future”? Zazie Beetz’s Janet — man, what a fucking awesome name, sounds like a sneeze that won an Oscar — who probably couldn’t see it if it was right in front of her eyes. I know what I typed. Don’t correct me. And Michael Peña’s Mark, a man so afraid of his own shadow that blinking probably sends him into a full-blown panic attack complete with hyperventilation and a detailed will. You know, just in case.

Asim Chaudhry’s Scott — who does, in fact, get five goddamn stars, thank you very much. With so much more to offer this world than a measly 96 degrees.

Of course, let’s not forget Haley Lu Richardson’s Ingrid, who prances around like — I don’t know — Elsa’s cousin? She brings the hapless joy of sweet release to every scene like a horsefly that lands on your sandwich and starts rubbing its little hands together like it just figured it all out, huh? Just like that. She carries that “I’m a princess” vibe to the party that some kids just don’t understand, I guess. You either get it or you don’t. She gets it. The movie gets it. We all get it.

Cursed with an honestly fucked disease — like, actually fucked, not metaphorically fucked, literally “I will die if I go near technology” fucked — of being allergic to phones and Wi-Fi. Plot convenieNCEE! With a capital C, E, and a little flourish at the end.

And Georgia Goodman’s Marie? Well, Marie just wanted pie.

Hopping right out of our jolly descriptions we find our rag-tag team of rarely-do-wells in a fight for not only their life but — well, honestly, let’s not exaggerate here — mostly just their life.

Jumping from what appears to conveniently be a phenomenal drinking game of “try and guess what’s going to happen next” — you take a shot every time you’re wrong, you’ll be dead by the thirty-minute mark, I’m not responsible for your liver — in a film so absurd you will not guess. Trust me. You will not guess.

Plot plot plot, time-space man says, “47 cents” (they really could of went for the classic 42 here I swear) — and everyone nods, and suddenly we find ourselves deep in the trenches of a zomboid Black Mirror project that forgot to tell its extras that they’re done filming for the day. They’re still there. Still shambling. Still wondering if craft services is ever coming back. Featuring a — well, let’s just say it’s got a lot of furBALLS. If you know, you know. If you don’t know, you’ll find out, and you’ll never be the same. With a couple of Scooby snacks for the road, Clifford the Thing clomps away into the moonlight without a moment to spare, leaving behind only questions and a faint smell of glitter. (can you smell glitter?)

While we swing back to the main timeline — in a galaxy way too close we’re given our ever-perpetuating villain speech. You know the one. “Me good, your plan bad, I am good, listen to good, me — why? Because.” It’s a villain thing. You get it. You’ve seen it a hundred times. But here? Here it fails. Miserably. At the hands of common sense herself. And let me tell you, watching common sense win? In this economy? In this timeline? It’s refreshing. It’s cathartic. its…wait…

A 4/5 movie for the premise alone. A 4.3/5 movie for execution.

An exhaustingly wild ride through and through — like a theme park attraction designed by someone who’s never actually been to a theme park but has heard rumors — and I would do it again for the 118th time. Maybe the 119th. Maybe I’ll just move in. Set up a little cot. Watch it on loop until I forget what reality even looks like. At this point, I’m not sure I’d notice the difference.