The lovely ladies of Sex and the City have baked you a tasty gourmet cupcake! A cupcake prepared from the dandruff of that homeless guy who wears a Fran Tarkenton jersey from 1977 made crunchy by his own accumulated effluvium and still sleeps on his dog that died three weeks ago; one filled with the earwax of Norway rats and frosted with lard left over from Nick Nolte's liposuction. (So you can see that while my calling it "tasty" may have been misleading, it is technically accurate.)
Much like the title of this movie.
Sex and the City 2 is such a shocking misfire that it is almost literally impossible to watch it without scrunching up your face and backing up a few inches from your television. By the end you'll be behind the couch weeping, cursing God and gnawing skin off the back of your hand.
It's not very good.