It’s Father’s Day, so here’s to all you sperm donors who stuck around. You didn’t have to, y’know. A lot of guys didn’t. They just deposited their legacy juice and moved on to the next town, hat tipped down, six-shooter at their side. But you did the noble thing and set aside your wanderlust and ambitions for greatness. You put down roots and stuck with that ballooning woman until she could spawn your genetic replacement. Good for you. And then, flush from that grand accomplishment, you put it to her again so that she could be replaced as well. We’re not sure if you were satisfied with zero population growth or perhaps the two of you squirted out a couple more squalling drains on the planet, but statistically you eventually figured out that the wife unit could literally be replaced with an upgraded model, one chosen on the basis of style and design rather than brand loyalty. So, you dumped your kid’s mother and took up with someone you like better, but in order to prove to the new Mrs. You that she has all the goods the old model had and more, you decide to roll the genetic dice again. Assuming you didn’t come up snake-eyes or boxcars, you got yourself a new kid to add to the brood from your last partnership, half of which are probably a bit resentful of how you treated mom and the other half just resentful because it’s fun to hate. You’re sharing kids with multiple women in multiple homes now, and that’s not even assuming that the new Mrs. You wasn’t married before herself and brought some of her own offspring into the mix. Who are these people? Are you a dad to them now too? After a while, you have to start annotating the pictures in your wallet with post-it notes to keep all the names straight. And then one of your children, a female child we’ll assume, gets preggers from some smooth-talkin’ Johnny with a winning smile, six-shooter at his side, who just moseyed on to the next town leaving the poor lass in despair on daddy’s doorstep. Good Christ, after all that, one Sunday in June is the least you deserve. It’s a day for all those DNA recipients to gather ’round you and thank you for their very existence, not that they will. But, under no circumstances, should it be a day of reflection. Don’t ask yourself what life would have been like if you hadn’t stuck around, Mr. Sperm Donor. Don’t dredge up any of those lost ambitions or dreams from pre-child days. Nothing good ever comes from asking the question, “What went wrong?”
In this week’s Bad Movie Review, Luka reaches back to 1965 for a poorly dubbed Italian job called The Bloody Pit of Horror. This old giggle-fit reinforces the message that those Italian guys really know how to treat a lady. What better place for a moderately kinky S&M photoshoot than an abandoned castle once owned by a murdering perv who called himself the Crimson Executioner? And look, there’s all these wacky torture devices left behind. And looky-looky . . . they’re still functional! In one of the most blatent displays of “What Could Go Wrong?” behavior, this group of fashion jaggoffs dress up in goofy outfits, take pictures of themselves playing with killing machines, get killed by the machines, and keep dressing up and taking more pictures. The viewer has to ask, “What the hell’s wrong with these people? Aside from the fact that their words don’t match their lip movements.” As a horror movie, perfect bodies notwithstanding, this film doesn’t do the job. But for a snarkable snort-fest with nice legs, great hair and lots of eye make-up, The Bloody Pit of Horror scores as a Good Unintentionally Bad Movie. Arrivederci, muthah-fuckahz.
Luka’s Bad Movie Review asks the question; what will happen when a bunch of arrogant photographers and stupid bimbo models sneak into a scary castle? MURDER! Please enjoy the poor dubbing and kinky S&M of The Bloody Pit of Horror (1965)!
Do your neighbors piss you off? Do they leave fetid pools of water and rotting garbage lying about? Are they the ones responsible for all these rats and cockroaches? Or is it YOUR fault? Please find out by viewing this week’s educational short; It Must Be The Neighbors (1966).
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From Skullard’s Postcard Collection: I remember looking at this for the first time and thinking, “Okay, is this card putting down welfare scum, or is it saying welfare scumming may be a preferable alternative to an exhausting life on the hamster wheel that goes nowhere?” Okay sure, the guy seems to have two wives, but they both seem to take great pleasure from his misery. I’m not sure where the upside is to all this.