Let me start off this review of the movie "Juno" by stating up front that I am not this movie's targeted demographic.

When Cody Diablo, the screenwriter, first set finger to keyboard she did not set out to entertain a horror-movie loving, 260 pound trucker. I accept that. Yet I'm not immune to the charms of movies outside the supernatural/dystopian future/apocalyptic survivalist genres that I search out for on Netflix or the movie theater listings. I found The Notebook to be a very well crafted romance, even though I am neither a carpenter nor James Garner. I still remember Fresh Horses, the last of the McCarthy-Ringwald romance flicks, with some fondness, though I am neither a feisty redhead trailer-trash chick nor an emaciated yuppy. Therefore, I was open to Juno, even though I have neither a vagina nor life-altering choice about whether to keep my upcoming newborn child or put him/her up for adoption. Yet here I am. $30 poorer and with an ethereal anvil of guilt to hold over my wife's head for making me sit through what was, in essence, a poorly done film aimed at the Hannah Montana crowd.