Nate (Joel David Moore, "Grandma's Boy") is a loser who wants to reverse the tide of his failed relationships by chasing after childhood love, Cristabelle (Paris Hilton). Attempting to woo her, Nate is promised carnal delights if he can find a boyfriend for Cristabelle's total opposite: the disgusting June (Christine Lakin). Balding, and cursed with rotting teeth and braidable body hair, hooking June up is a tall order, and as Nate goes about getting a man interested in her, he finds she's much more than fungal toenails and unibrow. She's all woman, and as the layers of ick are peeled away, Nate's has serious doubts which girl he's actually attracted to.

And before anyone e-mails me: yes, a studio is actually attempting to put this picture into theaters.

It's almost needless to describe how awful "Hottie" is. It's a total and complete misfire of intention and execution; an utterly worthless, unfunny sack of pain that doesn't deserve anyone's time or attention. It's best to ignore it, like one might avoid say the plague or a "Two and a Half Men" studio taping. Oh yes, it's that bad.

However, to lunge at Hilton's throat for this botched abortion is too easy and truly not where this trail of tears leads. The culprit is Joel David Moore, an actor who, for some unknown reason, was told early on in his career that he was funny, and now we all have to pay for this demonic miscalculation of talent.

Moore fancies himself the comedic conductor of "Hottie," improvising and stuttering his way through scenes, as if the film was entirely dependent on his spastic participation and nonstop nasal line-readings. I haven't seen much of Moore in dramatic settings, and lord only knows why James Cameron dropped the actor into his upcoming blockbuster "Avatar," but there's one feeling I hold without a drop of doubt in my mind: Joel David Moore is comedy poison. They should make it illegal for this guy to pursue the funny business.

Past Moore, there's director Tom Putnam and writer Heidi Ferrer. Putnam comes off as low-budget lackey, who stumbled into this somewhat high-profile gig by accident. His direction reflects a man who shouldn't be chasing filmmaking as a full-time gig. To him, if the action in the frame isn't repulsive (lots of gross-out humor here), it just isn't worth committing to film. Ferrer is the more fascinating trainwreck of this production. Writing a fable where a woman is unable to prove her worth until she conforms to mainstream ideas of beauty, Ferrer sets her own sex back 40 years with this turkey, not to mention her unease with originality and fear of wit.

Yes, "Hottie and the Nottie" is as ghastly as it sounds. The picture attempts to mask the stank with copious amounts of bronzed, jiggly Paris flesh, but let's get real here: been there, done that. At this point, Paris is never going to be a respectable actress, and her appearance in the film signals an astonishing lack of imagination and basic design of competence from the production. So, one can imagine the disgust of watching of movie where she's the best thing in it.