I hate boring movies. I set the bar pretty low for some B-grade trash, but as long as it isn’t boring, I’m in. Oh how I’ve suffered through the last couple weeks. Each tape I clumsily slapped into the VCR was more boring than the last. My mind eroded from sheer soul trampling boredom; wrinkles smoothed out like a sheet dancing in the breezy sunshine. The search and thrill of finding that one flick that would trample its closet room budget and exceed beyond the limitations of acting ability, technical aptitude, and shoddy, exploitive plot line was slowly waning from me. My resolve was fading. My eyes and senses and very joints ached. Slush puppies lost their flavor. Children cried in the streets. Life was bad.
Then Shriek of the Mutilated came and revived my sense of purpose. This was the dreg that made watching basement produced flicks so much fun. This was the forbidden cream filling of the cinematic Twinkie. This was the b-vitamin booster I needed. Fuck yeah, someone threw a surprise pizza party in my mind; pin the tail on the donkey and all that jazz. How have I gone so long without finding you Shriek of the Mutilated? Will you bear my babies? Will you be my cock sheath?
What’s that? You’ve heard the buildup, now you want to know what this gem is actually about? Well, I’ve got two words for you….bigfoot….sneakers. You want to know more? Ok; there’s a search for yeti, there’s college “kids” (ie thirty somethings we are supposed to believe are kids), there’s rampant racism surrounding native Americans, there’s a bald man in khakis sporting a pony tail, gore, scuzziness, hysteria, twists, turns, thrills, chills, spills…I’m spent. Every moment I was enthralled. Boring? I think not mon frer. This is the finest trash served on a silver plate, smothered in gravy, begging consumption. There’s so much I can comment on, but I won’t, and not because I’m lazy (which I am), but because spoiling the fun of it would be a sin. You’ve got to sit through it yourself. You’ve got to experience Shriek of the Mutilated on your own. Explaining why it’s fun would be like explaining why a water slide is a hoot, or why Chucky Cheese ball pits are always a holler (or were). I’ve given you enough….bigfoot….sneakers…..keep the remote ready, fingers poised over rewind……..
Then Shriek of the Mutilated came and revived my sense of purpose. This was the dreg that made watching basement produced flicks so much fun. This was the forbidden cream filling of the cinematic Twinkie. This was the b-vitamin booster I needed. Fuck yeah, someone threw a surprise pizza party in my mind; pin the tail on the donkey and all that jazz. How have I gone so long without finding you Shriek of the Mutilated? Will you bear my babies? Will you be my cock sheath?
What’s that? You’ve heard the buildup, now you want to know what this gem is actually about? Well, I’ve got two words for you….bigfoot….sneakers. You want to know more? Ok; there’s a search for yeti, there’s college “kids” (ie thirty somethings we are supposed to believe are kids), there’s rampant racism surrounding native Americans, there’s a bald man in khakis sporting a pony tail, gore, scuzziness, hysteria, twists, turns, thrills, chills, spills…I’m spent. Every moment I was enthralled. Boring? I think not mon frer. This is the finest trash served on a silver plate, smothered in gravy, begging consumption. There’s so much I can comment on, but I won’t, and not because I’m lazy (which I am), but because spoiling the fun of it would be a sin. You’ve got to sit through it yourself. You’ve got to experience Shriek of the Mutilated on your own. Explaining why it’s fun would be like explaining why a water slide is a hoot, or why Chucky Cheese ball pits are always a holler (or were). I’ve given you enough….bigfoot….sneakers…..keep the remote ready, fingers poised over rewind……..
There will be more about Shriek of the Mutilated in the future. It's a movie too goregasmic to visit just once!
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