It can’t be easy to make a film as bad as Pigs. The story, as such, is retarded. Miles (Jefferson Brown) is a campus legend in the making, challenged to land a girl for each letter of the alphabet. Things go smoothly enough until “X” (or Gabrielle Xeropolos, played by Melanie Marden) enters his sights, and our asshole lothario grows a heart. Too bad about those intricate conquest diaries Miles has been keeping. Too bad, indeed. The film closes on Miles’s comeuppance, bringing to mind The Magnificent Ambersons remade by monkeys, before fading into a shot of a woman’s torso bearing her breasts under the caption, “the producers suggested there be nudity in this film, so here it is.”

Even attempting to think critically about Pigs is next to useless — it’s mean-spirited, sexist and intellectually torturous. Brown isn’t even a particularly attractive man. At least with tripe like Good Luck Chuck, you can believe Dane Cook would have next to no trouble bedding the beauties he’s been cast with. With the sound off, Cook’s still kind of hot. But then again, Marden’s little more than a flatliner in a miniskirt, so perhaps Miles and “X” are meant for each other.

Director Karl DiPelino is the same creative mind behind the Internet sensation Sons of Butcher, and the dialogue of Pigs reaches no further than the Sons’ lyrics (see: “Fuck the Shit,” streaming on Sons of Butcher’s MySpace page, and then replace “the shit” with “Karl DiPelino” and feel at least a little better about the 82 minutes of your life that’s just gone down the toilet). As an example of insufferably bad cinema, Pigs would be king, were it not so instantly forgettable. DiPelino’s not even capable of pulling out an Ed Wood-style catastrophe that flips the scale so far past bad it’s actually kind of fun to watch. Pigs is merely painful.

On some level, Pigs (or at least its trailer) asks the question: are all men indeed sex-obsessed pigs? Through the eyes of DiPelino and his cast of never-rans ($5 says we’ll never see Brown again), the answer seems a resounding, “yes,” and, “a-hur-hur-hur!” Should you ever meet DiPelino in a bar (or the unemployment line), kick him in the nuts on behalf of humankind.