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Chamber of Pudd This is Birdemic

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Still the Z-List trundles on. I started with in excess of 100 billion brain cells and currently just a little under three hundred of those are still operable and dwindling fast. Soon I will be akin to Bluebeard from Project X on receipt of his stint at space camp; dead behind the eyes and unable to undress a banana. My devolution has not been without best intentions however; to alert you fine people to the true cinematic dregs of the four decades within my jurisdiction. It turns out that Keeper is the gift that just keeps on giving as I am about to present another baker’s dozen even if that means soundly scraping the barrel in the process. So, without further ado, what better place to commence The Execrable Collection than at the bottom?

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“Well I’ll be damned. It’s a goddamn shit monster”

Our first nugget of grunge is pure dung in the most literal sense. Rick Popko and Dan West squeezed out Monsturd in 2003 and instantly spearheaded a movement. Cult status is there for the taking should your film do precisely what is stated on the tin and the pair slackened their collective bowel and shat out a minor classic. When I say classic, I use the term loosely, as the Monsturd in question made the Shit Demon of Dogma look like seventies Marlon Brando and we know from the very moment we first step into Butte County, exactly what we’re walking into, that being the less than proverbial shit storm.

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“There’s a giant doo-doo in the bathroom”
“Ehhh, I’m really proud of you honey”
“But I didn’t make it, Daddy. It came out of the bathroom and it started saying bad words. I’m scared”
“There’s nothin’ to be scared of, honey. Number twos can’t talk”

As a police sketch artist inquires as to whether the killer in question is “creamy or chunky” and possesses any distinguishing peanuts, we are busy shedding IQ points faster than Lloyd Christmas in a yo-yo factory. However, humans have a tendency to peek at their bot shots before flushing and I would advise the same thing here, if only to marvel at how far $3000 can stretch. Amongst all the inane toilet humor and customary feces gags lays a nugget of promise. For the record, daddy I’m afraid you’re frightfully misinformed, number twos can talk and they even have their own ballad. Shit head!

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“Well there is this scientist. He’s a Japanese scientistic…from Japan. Very authentic accent, slanty eyes, little penis”

Popko and West got their asses in gear and also appeared in Mark Pirro’s Rectuma in the very same year, proving without a shadow of a doubt, that these guys should never be trusted near the buffet. Rectuma told the tale of Waldo Williams (a priceless Bill Devlin), the unwitting recipient of an anal pounding courtesy of the infamous Mexican butt humping bull frog, whose posterior underwent a somewhat disheartening transformation and set off on a universal rampage. The effects, if you can accuse them of being such, resemble the animated intermissions during a stint at Monty Python’s Flying Circus and it would appear that Pirro has been provided with a bum steer. However, an occasionally genuinely amusing script and spirited lead performance from Devlin double dare you not to snicker and I, for one, was shit out of luck attempting to resist its effortless charm.

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“Whoever this individual is, he’s masturbating himself into a very lengthy prison term”

One final dishonorary mention to the inimitable Popko and West as, in 2008, dumber and dumbest birthed Retardead into our laps. You have to give the dynamic duo props for branding if nothing else. I can almost see the ad-campaign you know? “From the shits that brought you Monsturd then floated back to the surface for Rectuma, comes a new wave of terrible terror more terrifying than a thousand chocolate midgets” Somehow the lads managed to get their dubiously brown hands on $500k of green and their sequel to Monsturd picked up where that broke off.

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It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside to watch indie film-makers gradually unfurl and they clearly had a ball with Retardead. Less politically correct than Andrew “Dice” Clay in the eighties and just as loveable darn it, it would be plain mean not wishing the boys well in their bid for trilogization. At their current rate of growth, their next joint venture should be afforded extravagant riches to the tune of $83 million + to dispose of. Tell you what guys, I’ll throw my shit in the ring. Buttula 5000, Assholes & Hell Blows, The Sphincter of Nimh, Poo Romance, Logzilla, Shite Night, Boweling III: The Marspoopials, Tales of The Unexcreted, Close Encounters of The Turd Kind, Raw Rectum Rex, The Town That Dreaded Pants Down, The Constipator, Bot Pursuit, Reese’s Feces, Spinal Crap, Forrest Dump, Stool of Duty, The Fart of War, Mega Shart vs Diarrhitic Snake, Logan’s Runs, I Shit on Your Grave, Anusgator. I could keep going all day man.

Creep Creepersin O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown

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If you’ve ever had sex or know someone who has…you’ll love O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown
If you’ve ever been to a bar or seen one on T.V…you’ll love O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown
If you’ve ever masturbated in a public bathroom…you’ll love O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown
If you don’t send this trailer to at least thirteen of your friends…O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown will give you syphilis

Speaking of rattling on, Creep Creepersin’s risible woe-budget slasher from 2008, O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown, had one single thing going for it and even that was questionable. A four-minute trailer is the easy way out as, of 69 minutes of tedium, only forty are actual footage. The remainder comprises lengthy clips from Night of The Living Dead, even more ironic as there isn’t a single shuffler in this Zombietown. Instead, Creepersin pays affectionate homage to Friday the 13th and that means we get to go P.O.V. for the true first-person experience. Alas, for as much as we should be thankful, we’re not. If you’ve recently been lobotomized, are under twelve, or own one of the twelve copies of Retardead not used to de-ice windscreens, then you’ll love O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown. Makes me thankful I streamed it. There are no flies on Keeper.

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“What’s up ladies? What this party needs is some sausage”

Jonathan Gorman and Thomas Edward Seymour gave us Bikini Bloodbath in 2006, even though nobody asked for it and, when we all offered it a berth of girth, they punished us further with Bikini Bloodbath Car Wash and Bikini Bloodbath Christmas completing their homoerotic trilogy, before John B. Reed picked up the reins for Bikini Bloodbath Shakespeare starring none other than Borelli of Rectuma fame. I trust you can see a pattern emerging here. I have yet to have had the distinct pleasure of Reed’s own take and instead feel obliged to divert your attention towards the terrible trio from Gorman and Seymour. In their defense they get better with every entry which is kind of like saying that the Mexican butt-humping bull frog lubes up a little more with every insertion. Pure tripe which makes Sorority Babes at The Slimeball Bowl-a-Rama seem like Fried Green Tomatoes at The Whistle Stop Cafe.

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Time to raise the bar some with The Curse of El Charro and that may well be the only time I can ever use that sentence in open conversation. I wish to remind Rich Ragsdale that it’s not the winning but the taking part that counts and his slight 2005 slasher at least plays it straight. Having said that, Kathryn Taylor’s turn as caricature token black chick Tanya was even more excruciating to watch as we felt every twinge of pain of her “sistas” as they desperately attempted to not pass a kidney laughing. Lemmy from Motörhead made an appearance although he appeared decidedly docile as though he had recently been chloroformed and spent the last twelve hours inside a shipping crate. The Curse of El Charro wasn’t an outright failure and did manage to build a head of lightweight steam en route to its largely off-screen bloodbath but, with a little more TLC it could have come good on its intriguing set-up instead of flatlining.

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I think you all deserve a break you know. Allow me to introduce you to the cherry-coated apex of this particular trifle of Z-list insignificance. Jesse Baget’s Wrestlemaniac had absolutely no right being reasonably good as there are three things in life that I am sure of. Justin Bieber still masturbates in a sock, O.J. Simpson’s defense lawyer was a huge Nordberg fan, and I absolutely loathe wrestling. This theatrical sport offers so much joy to so many people and nothing but pain to Keeper. I just don’t get it, it’s lost on me, and I’m fully aware that I only have myself to blame for despising it so but I’ll stick to Tom & Jerry thanks. Just the mere mention of wrestling makes me desire only to name and shame Mr. Nanny but that belongs on another list entirely.

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Digressions aside, El Mascarado Massacre as it is more commonly referred, damn near made me eat my balaclava. It tells the tale of a group of the usual gringos (nerd, pothead, whores) who unwittingly rile the disgraced luchador of the title after passing the gates of La Sangre de Dios to shoot a skin flick. The seemingly inexorable killer has his own signature move, that being the old face ripper, and cuts an ominous figure for sure. Moreover, Baget manages to wring every last drip of sweat from his towel and Wrestlemaniac manages to stay on its feet for its astutely brief 75 minute runtime, despite its knees buckling on occasion. Worth checking out and, considering the company it keeps here, pretty close to Touchstone quality.

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“It’s pretty thick so it might be a little hard to get out”

Anyhoots, it’s swiftly back to the trenches and Allen Wilbanks’ inept home-made slasher Motor Home Massacre steers the ship back on course after Wrestlemaniac came fretfully close to wrecking it. Actually, I can’t be too parsimonious when speaking of the director’s 2005 debut as it does at least show a willingness to try. Made on a budget which I would assume to amass to half a shoestring and a half-eaten glob of Bubblicious, Wilbanks at least had a crack at practical splatter and did manage to procure a rather plush RV to fill to heaving with buxom bunnies and their boneheaded beaus. That will come as scant consolation after 88 gruelling minutes once you break out the defibrillator paddles.

99 Cents Baby Wicked Weed

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“Welcome to the jungle mofo”

After all that dross, I would assume the only manner in which to fritter those final few brain cells would be to get baked together. Evil Bong, Evil Bong II: King Bong and Evil Bong 3-D: The Wrath of Bong should snuff out those stubborn synapses and there are worse ways to go than with Charles Band’s trilogy de résistance although back-to-watch views may well be a blowback too far. Meanwhile, The Gingerdead Man misconstrued the word bake-off and vacated the oven for a quick toke, which should inform as to the kind of company we’re keeping should we all choose to pass the doob.

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“Hey look, a fishing rod! I can go catch some fish!”

Okay then Grueheads, you’ve twisted my arm. One more for the road and this one would give Tippi Hedren cold sweats. Alfred Hitchcock gave us The Birds back in 1963 and, almost half a century later, James Nguyen showed just how much technology had developed during the interim with Birdemic: Shock & Terror. Making Troll 2 look like Kiss of The Spider Woman is no small feat and Nguyen’s film did it by being laughably inept in every conceivable area. The feathered fiends of the title had only two settings: hover and peck and they did neither convincingly. Thankfully, all is not lost for a movie such as Birdemic as cult status beckons. It even spawned a sequel, although I just don’t have the remaining strength to get into that one.

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My brain hurts; I mean really…it hurts. I’m not even kidding; one more Z-List and I may well devolve back to a fossil. So all of this has got me thinking. I could arrange a class reunion for all our distinguished Z-Listers in their honor. Crazy Fat Ethel could come, Jack Frost, The Killer Tomatoes, and the Hobgoblins would no doubt snatch up the opportunity of a soirée for their benefit. Hell, so long as I clench both buttocks firmly, I could even extend an invitation to the Mexican butt-humping bull frog. Think of the infinite possibilities. Monsturd vs. Rectuma; surely a Z-movie classic just asking to be excreted. Now that’s the shit right there.

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The Execrable Collection

Monsturd,
Rectuma,
Retardead,
O.C. Babes and the Slasher of Zombietown,
Bikini Bloodbath,
Bikini Bloodbath Car Wash,
Bikini Bloodbath Christmas,
The Curse of El Charro,
Wrestlemaniac,
Motor Home Massacre,
Evil Bong,
Evil Bong II: King Bong,
Evil Bong 3-D: The Wrath of Bong,
Birdemic: Shock & Terror

Click here to read The Lamentable Collection

 

Sequence Thus Far

The Diabolical Collection
The Abominable Collection
The Unfathomable Collection
The Unimacculate Collection
The Deplorable Collection
The Unpardonable Collection

The Loathsome Collection

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2015

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