'A lot can happen on the road to nowhere," reads the tagline on the poster for "Wild Hogs," a comedy that also illustrates exactly how nothing can happen on the road to nowhere. I enjoyed the echo of Michel Houellebecq's novel "Plat form" ("Anything can happen in life, especially nothing"), but possibly I am assigning too much credit here.

Tim Allen, John Travolta, Martin Lawrence and William H. Macy are aging white-collar types (except Lawrence - a semiemployed plumber who hangs with a computer programmer, a zillionaire husband of a supermodel, and a dentist).

They go on a biker trip from Cincinnati to the West Coast because they are tired of being bored and would prefer to bore us instead.

They:

Eat a stick of butter.

Drive into signs and watermelons.

Wear a funny helmet.

Carry around a bag of human waste.

Burn down their tent.

Say gay-sounding things in front of a gay cop.

Get bugs smeared on their goggles.

Go swimming naked, also in front of a gay cop.

Pee shoulder to shoulder.

Enter New Mexico.

Run into "bad dude" Ray Liotta, who has neck tats.

Fight with the bad dudes.

Run out of gas.

Eat really hot chili.

Get hit in the groin.

Slap a bull.

Dance with each other.

Fail to knock over some milk bottles with a softball.

Squirt ketchup and mustard on the bad dudes.

Also, as if they were Pirandello characters, they issue comments about the movie they're stuck in, such as:

"We're not Wild Hogs. We're more like Wild Lambs."

"Guys, this is poo."

"It's a joke that I'm damn sick of."

"What's wrong with these people?"

"Do I look like I have a problem? Do I?"

"We gotta move on. We gotta find a way out."

"The truth is, I'm not OK."

"Admit, I'm lame. Just lame."

"Let's end this."

"A ferret, I'd slap. You know?"

I know. But next time you want to slap your ferret, Tim, please, keep it to yourself.