Entries Tagged 'go fuck yourself' ↓

The Nightmare-ening Day 6: FREDDY’S DEAD: THE FINAL NIGHTMARE (1991)

Since A Nightmare on Elm Street 5 ends with Super Dream Master Alice and her Super Dream Unborn Child emerging victorious from battle with Freddy Krueger, it's not crazy to think that the sixth film in the series, Freddy's Dead, might involve these characters in some capacity. But no! It is not to be. Instead, this film does whatever it wants to, beginning with this:


Oh. Okay.

So...wait. It's been ten years since The Dream Child? Is that what "now" refers to? And in that time, the entire under-18 population of Springwood is wiped out save one teenager and all the adults have completely flipped out? And we're just going to...skip out on all of that? And there's no police involvement or anything? What a strange foot to start on, Freddy's Dead. What a very strange foot. You've sure got moxie, kid!

But moxie is all you've got because good GRAVY this is a bad movie. I'm not sure where to begin, and quite frankly I want to purge the memory of this film and everything associated with it from my brain as quickly as I can. I want to peruse the Final Girl archives in, say, 2019 and come across this entry and think...huh. The screencaps kind of ring a bell a bit, but I don't remember much about this movie. Did I actually watch it?

And hey, Future Me: if you are getting it in your head to give Freddy's Dead another try in the interests of science or horror movies or remembering or whatever the reason is: STOP. Stop yourself right now. Cut off your own head if you have to, just stay as far away from this film as you can. See? It's bad. You had a bad, bad time watching this.



Aw, but baby Breckin Meyer! And Yaphet Kotto! What if I watch it in 3D this time? Maybe I'll find something worthwhile to it! It's the year 2019, after all. Freddy's Dead is the very rare horror film in which no women are killed...shouldn't I watch it again to see if it's subversive in other ways? Maybe there's meaning in--

NO! No, Future Me. It is not worth another 90 minutes of your life, I promise. Time is running out for you as it is!

Is that a threat?

Not at all, I am just saying. You've already spent 90 minutes with this film. Rather than doubling that, you should spend those 90 minutes watching something you love. Or something you've never seen. You should watch anything else. Why, you could stare at the wall, even! That would be 90 minutes better spent.

Yeah, but this:


I know. Even with that.

Look everybody, I'm not really sure what to say here. Freddy's Dead doesn't make much sense in the ways it plays with the logic of the preceding films in the series (yeah, they had their own logic). People can pull each other into dreams all willy-nilly, rendering Kristen's specialness decidedly unspecial. No one is particularly scared about Freddy, or scared by him when they confront him. If anything, The Final Nightmare seems to want to be a horror-comedy–man, Roseanne is one of the greatest TV shows of all time, but I really didn't need Roseanne and Tom Arnold in this movie–and ultimately fails at both.

Huge amounts of backstory are given to Freddy Krueger. We see glimpses of his childhood, where he is teased for being the product of a gang rape, and his adulthood where oh, hey, he was married and had a kid. This is substantial development for a horror movie icon, and yet it's all waved away quickly. Freddy's child doesn't have any qualms about being the child of a child killer. None of this means anything at all, and when Freddy finally dies after six fucking movies, Freddy's child quips "Freddy's dead!" and everyone laughs and I'm surprised it didn't end on a GD freeze frame. That's it. That's the wrap up for the Nightmare on Elm Street series. Are you kidding me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to figure out how to bleach my brain so I can forget about this movie and get on with my life. See you in 2019*!

*tomorrow, when I post about the remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street

The Nightmare-ening Day 6: FREDDY’S DEAD: THE FINAL NIGHTMARE (1991)

Since A Nightmare on Elm Street 5 ends with Super Dream Master Alice and her Super Dream Unborn Child emerging victorious from battle with Freddy Krueger, it's not crazy to think that the sixth film in the series, Freddy's Dead, might involve these characters in some capacity. But no! It is not to be. Instead, this film does whatever it wants to, beginning with this:


Oh. Okay.

So...wait. It's been ten years since The Dream Child? Is that what "now" refers to? And in that time, the entire under-18 population of Springwood is wiped out save one teenager and all the adults have completely flipped out? And we're just going to...skip out on all of that? And there's no police involvement or anything? What a strange foot to start on, Freddy's Dead. What a very strange foot. You've sure got moxie, kid!

But moxie is all you've got because good GRAVY this is a bad movie. I'm not sure where to begin, and quite frankly I want to purge the memory of this film and everything associated with it from my brain as quickly as I can. I want to peruse the Final Girl archives in, say, 2019 and come across this entry and think...huh. The screencaps kind of ring a bell a bit, but I don't remember much about this movie. Did I actually watch it?

And hey, Future Me: if you are getting it in your head to give Freddy's Dead another try in the interests of science or horror movies or remembering or whatever the reason is: STOP. Stop yourself right now. Cut off your own head if you have to, just stay as far away from this film as you can. See? It's bad. You had a bad, bad time watching this.



Aw, but baby Breckin Meyer! And Yaphet Kotto! What if I watch it in 3D this time? Maybe I'll find something worthwhile to it! It's the year 2019, after all. Freddy's Dead is the very rare horror film in which no women are killed...shouldn't I watch it again to see if it's subversive in other ways? Maybe there's meaning in--

NO! No, Future Me. It is not worth another 90 minutes of your life, I promise. Time is running out for you as it is!

Is that a threat?

Not at all, I am just saying. You've already spent 90 minutes with this film. Rather than doubling that, you should spend those 90 minutes watching something you love. Or something you've never seen. You should watch anything else. Why, you could stare at the wall, even! That would be 90 minutes better spent.

Yeah, but this:


I know. Even with that.

Look everybody, I'm not really sure what to say here. Freddy's Dead doesn't make much sense in the ways it plays with the logic of the preceding films in the series (yeah, they had their own logic). People can pull each other into dreams all willy-nilly, rendering Kristen's specialness decidedly unspecial. No one is particularly scared about Freddy, or scared by him when they confront him. If anything, The Final Nightmare seems to want to be a horror-comedy–man, Roseanne is one of the greatest TV shows of all time, but I really didn't need Roseanne and Tom Arnold in this movie–and ultimately fails at both.

Huge amounts of backstory are given to Freddy Krueger. We see glimpses of his childhood, where he is teased for being the product of a gang rape, and his adulthood where oh, hey, he was married and had a kid. This is substantial development for a horror movie icon, and yet it's all waved away quickly. Freddy's child doesn't have any qualms about being the child of a child killer. None of this means anything at all, and when Freddy finally dies after six fucking movies, Freddy's child quips "Freddy's dead!" and everyone laughs and I'm surprised it didn't end on a GD freeze frame. That's it. That's the wrap up for the Nightmare on Elm Street series. Are you kidding me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to figure out how to bleach my brain so I can forget about this movie and get on with my life. See you in 2019*!

*tomorrow, when I post about the remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street

The Nightmare-ening Day 6: FREDDY’S DEAD: THE FINAL NIGHTMARE (1991)

Since A Nightmare on Elm Street 5 ends with Super Dream Master Alice and her Super Dream Unborn Child emerging victorious from battle with Freddy Krueger, it's not crazy to think that the sixth film in the series, Freddy's Dead, might involve these characters in some capacity. But no! It is not to be. Instead, this film does whatever it wants to, beginning with this:


Oh. Okay.

So...wait. It's been ten years since The Dream Child? Is that what "now" refers to? And in that time, the entire under-18 population of Springwood is wiped out save one teenager and all the adults have completely flipped out? And we're just going to...skip out on all of that? And there's no police involvement or anything? What a strange foot to start on, Freddy's Dead. What a very strange foot. You've sure got moxie, kid!

But moxie is all you've got because good GRAVY this is a bad movie. I'm not sure where to begin, and quite frankly I want to purge the memory of this film and everything associated with it from my brain as quickly as I can. I want to peruse the Final Girl archives in, say, 2019 and come across this entry and think...huh. The screencaps kind of ring a bell a bit, but I don't remember much about this movie. Did I actually watch it?

And hey, Future Me: if you are getting it in your head to give Freddy's Dead another try in the interests of science or horror movies or remembering or whatever the reason is: STOP. Stop yourself right now. Cut off your own head if you have to, just stay as far away from this film as you can. See? It's bad. You had a bad, bad time watching this.



Aw, but baby Breckin Meyer! And Yaphet Kotto! What if I watch it in 3D this time? Maybe I'll find something worthwhile to it! It's the year 2019, after all. Freddy's Dead is the very rare horror film in which no women are killed...shouldn't I watch it again to see if it's subversive in other ways? Maybe there's meaning in--

NO! No, Future Me. It is not worth another 90 minutes of your life, I promise. Time is running out for you as it is!

Is that a threat?

Not at all, I am just saying. You've already spent 90 minutes with this film. Rather than doubling that, you should spend those 90 minutes watching something you love. Or something you've never seen. You should watch anything else. Why, you could stare at the wall, even! That would be 90 minutes better spent.

Yeah, but this:


I know. Even with that.

Look everybody, I'm not really sure what to say here. Freddy's Dead doesn't make much sense in the ways it plays with the logic of the preceding films in the series (yeah, they had their own logic). People can pull each other into dreams all willy-nilly, rendering Kristen's specialness decidedly unspecial. No one is particularly scared about Freddy, or scared by him when they confront him. If anything, The Final Nightmare seems to want to be a horror-comedy–man, Roseanne is one of the greatest TV shows of all time, but I really didn't need Roseanne and Tom Arnold in this movie–and ultimately fails at both.

Huge amounts of backstory are given to Freddy Krueger. We see glimpses of his childhood, where he is teased for being the product of a gang rape, and his adulthood where oh, hey, he was married and had a kid. This is substantial development for a horror movie icon, and yet it's all waved away quickly. Freddy's child doesn't have any qualms about being the child of a child killer. None of this means anything at all, and when Freddy finally dies after six fucking movies, Freddy's child quips "Freddy's dead!" and everyone laughs and I'm surprised it didn't end on a GD freeze frame. That's it. That's the wrap up for the Nightmare on Elm Street series. Are you kidding me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to figure out how to bleach my brain so I can forget about this movie and get on with my life. See you in 2019*!

*tomorrow, when I post about the remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street

an open letter

I posted about this over yonder on the Pretty-Scary forums, but I think it bears mentioning here. You see, I am what you might call "irked". I said:

I'm fucking tired of indie (and even not-so-indie) horror filmmakers acting as if they're OWED space on my site, as if I should feel privileged to have the opportunity to post about their work. I don't mean people offering to buy ad space, I mean people sending me a "post about this!" message. What they want, basically, is free advertising.

I run a blog, not a news site. I don't post about every new thing that comes down the line. I don't make any money off of Final Girl. I don't run ANY kind of advertising on it, including Google AdSense. Although money is nice, I like my site this way. A couple of times I've been approached by video game companies who offer free games in exchange for a post- I've done this, and in those posts I'm very up front about whoring my site out for a free video game. I'd whore out my cats for free video games! I'd whore out your cats for free video games.

But when I get an email (or, worse yet, a comment on a post, as I did today) that isn't even a press release- something that just says, basically, "Great blog! I would love for you to feature my movie." it really rubs me the wrong way. Should it? I don't know. I hate the fake praise, and the lack of personalization. At least SPAM spam is amusing- this is just gross. I mean, NO SHIT you would like me to feature your $5 movie. Again, it's free advertising. I know it's tough out there for the little guy to get attention, but at least send a legit fucking press release- it's a bit more professional. But don't fucking TELL me to post about your crap. Really, it makes me want to give them NO publicity, and I want to ignore the movie itself completely.

A comment?? At least take the time to find my email address, which is linked on my site.

Now, let me say this: I really do understand indie filmmakers (or their cronies) sending out press releases or emails to draw attention to their work. If you don't put the word out yourself, you run the risk that no one will ever see your website or your trailer or what have you. I get it. Shoot me an email, by all means. I'll check it out, and if it's something super awesome or something I dig or I want to post about it, believe me, I'll post about it. I've gotten many, many emails, however, that say little more than "Post about this!", as if I have to. Guess what? I don't have to. 

I got fucking hounded by some douchey indie-producer about posting a trailer for some movie, to the point where they actually pulled out the "These other blogs (yes, they named names) have posted about it and we'd REALLY APPRECIATE it if you would post about it, too." card, as if peer pressure would kick me into action. It didn't. 

I like spreading the word. I like the idea that I might be able to introduce anyone reading this to a movie or filmmaker. It's good. It's "community" and good karma and all that shit. But honestly, I'm not going to give free publicity to people who expect it. I don't care if every other blog in the horrorverse posts about it. THIS IS NOT A NEWS SITE. I'm not in this for blog hits or to get "in" with filmmakers or what the fuck ever. Point me to your work, and if I want to write about it, I will. End of story.

But for fuck's sake, do it in an email. If you leave a random comment on a post saying "Here's my work, here's my website, great blog!", I will not publish it. Unless I'm drunk, or in one of those "Eh, what's the harm?" moods...then, 20 minutes later, I'll remember that you're being a leechy a-hole and I'll delete the comment. Finding my email address, which is linked on this site, is not difficult. 

I bid you good day.


Wicked Lake: A Haiku

I'd seen it in stores
but had not read about it-
I was curious.

Written by the guy
who wrote Going to Pieces,
it had potential-

-but then, ev'rything
has potential, no matter
who's behind the script.

Still, I put it on
my Brain List of stuff to see
one of these damn days.

(also: Audition)
The opportunity came
this weekend, thanks to

Netflix streaming (thanks
Darren!), quite possibly the
best thing in the world.

Wicked Lake began
in an art class. Art students
are quite annoying

(trust me, I was one)
but this guy Caleb was, like,
ULTRA-annoying.

Twitchy, affected-
how could I watch this dude for
ninety minutes? Huh?

His family was worse-
like Leatherface's family,
with 60 percent

more retard, more perv,
more ridiculous...yet far
less interesting.

You may find "retard"
to be offensive; sometimes
it's appropriate.

Anyway, a bunch
of lesbian witches or
something head off to

a cabin for some
weekend lesbian antics.
They make out and serve

to tease the hillbillies
at a gas station; they are
unremarkable

save for their overt
sexuality, because
that makes women strong.

Ever notice that?
I've no problem with sexy
female characters,

but when there's nothing
else to them it seems a l'il
silly. And boring.

Anywho, shortly
after the ladies get to
the cabin, Twitchy

and his family
show up to get their rape on,
'cause that's what men do.

Ever notice that?
How in these movies it's a
given that men will

rape a woman just
because? Maybe someday a
horror movie will

examine that- but
Wicked Lake is not that film.
Instead, there's a long

period of time
where there's just the threat of rape,
and it's so boring.

I'm not a fan of
rape in movies, but come on.
Holding these women

captive while pointing
knives at them and threatening
violence makes for a

rather dull time. Shit
or get off the pot, you know?
I was getting sleepy.

Then, The Internet
intervened. Netflix cut out
and the movie stopped.

I thought to myself,
"I could start the film again,
but, I mean, really.

There are better ways
I can spend my time. Better
movies I can watch...

...or even staring
at the wall, that would be much
better than this crap."

And so, I did not
start Wicked Lake up again.
Maybe it would have

gotten good. Maybe,
but I don't really care much.
The first half hour was

miserable, and
life is too damn short. Naked
lesbian witches,

Going to Pieces,
none of it matters if the
movie just plain sucks.

A Letter

Dear The Unborn,

Since the day you made the rounds at press screenings, I'd been warned about you. "The Unborn is no good, Stacie," my friends said. "Stay far, far away." It always bums me out to hear this about a horror film- I mean, I want all of you to be the love of my life- but I had to listen. When you were in theaters, I stayed far, far away.

Don't take that too personally, though. I tend to stay away from theaters because 1) umm, expensive and 2) umm, to go to the theater I have to leave the house and that directly conflicts with my career goals as a shut-in.

I figured you and I would eventually cross paths someday. Maybe after I'd been drinking and my resistance was low- you know, at a Halloween party or something when I'd had too many gin & tonics and deviled eggs and it was late and you were there and I said "Eh, the hell with it- it's Halloween." But time went on and that never happened, and...I'm sorry to say this, but when I encountered you in stores, there was always something else to rent and you were always too expensive to buy on a whim, and then there were those warnings from my friends. I'd pick up your DVD case and think, "Well, maybe..." and I'd hear a voice echo in my head- like when Luke was about to blow up the Death Star and Obi-Wan Kenobi chimed in to remind him about that whole Force thing- saying "Stacieeeee...it's terribbblllllle..." and I'd have to put you back on the shelf.

Okay, I'm being nice here to spare your feelings. The truth is...for fuck's sake, The Unborn, you're a Platinum Dunes movie. No, you're not a remake out to poop all over a classic, but still- you were brought into the world by horror's Unholy Trinity of Michael Bay, Brad Fuller, and Andrew Form. I try not to judge someone by the company they keep, but I do have limits.

Last night, however, circumstances led to our being in the same room at the same time...and I'd had some wine. My inhibitions were lowered, The Unborn, and you took advantage! I gave you the benefit of the doubt despite having oh so many reasons to ignore you...and you swept into the DVD player like you owned the place. When I said, "How bad can it be?" you should have, like, snapped yourself in half or something to stop me from giving you a try. When I said "Gary Oldman is in it!", you should have shot down my hopes with "Yeah, but he's wasted in a stupid cameo." But you didn't, The Unborn...you didn't.

Now here I am, a day later, wondering what the eff I was thinking. I'm full of sorrow and regret, and I'm ashamed to tell my friends what happened. Sure, they'll be supportive, but I know they'll be thinking "I told you so..."- and I know they're right. If Luke didn't listen to Obi-Wan, that fucking Death Star would still be sitting out there, waiting to zap planets into dust like nobody's business. Have I learned nothing from Star Wars??

I don't know why I'm being nice about this, The Unborn. You really don't deserve a polite, gentle scolding...or a well-thought out critique.

Quite frankly, you suck. You're lethargic. You're lazy storytelling...yet somehow, you're also no storytelling. You don't make any fucking sense. My new daily struggle is trying to overcome picking apart your plot holes, lest said picking apart completely consumes my life. You are nothing but the cheapest of cheap jump scares. Scenes full of jump scares. A movie of jump scares. You're derivative of 50 better horror movies I'd rather watch.

To get all Nancy Thompson about it, you're nothing. You're shit.

I never want to see you again.

Love,

Final Girl

Day 28: “He’s hunting us.”

Okay kids, I'm going to try something a little different for today's film, Wrong Turn 3: Left for Dead. I'm gonna do a sort of live blog, just kind of typing my thoughts as they happen whilst I watch the movie. It'll be a bullet pointstravaganza that's so in the moment you'll feel as if you're right here with me gettin' yer deformed backwoods cannibal on. Won't that be neat? Yes, it will.

Now, I haven't heard good things about this film. As you may or may not know (or care), I'm a fan of the original film...don't know if I've ever mentioned it, but I'm not a fan of the second one. Such is life. I'm inclined to think that the series probably should have ended after two films at most, but who knows? Perhaps I'm about to dig in to one surprisingly awesome movie. If the cover is any indication, then the series is really getting back to its roots- you know, a brunette in a tank top and all that (I mean, really??). Anyway, enough intro. Time to hit play!

Oh yes...there will be spoilers.
  • Wow, this opens with some ragin' water kayaking. How very The Descent!
  • The woman get topless and smoke a joint while the men look for firewood. The acting (and dialogue) are so atrocious, I can only hope they get killed quickly...and they do! Or at least titso does...arrow through the breast and through the eyeball.
  • There's the archer cannibal dude, munching on said eyeball. Wow...that looks like a latex mask. And there goes the last remaining shred of mystique the Wrong Turn killers had...
  • Holy shit, the picture is pixelated something bad...hopefully that's just because I'm watching a screener copy.
  • Okay, the sliced-n-slowly-fall-apart death is in effect, and it's truly some of the worst CGI I've seen in a while. Stan Winston is flipping this shit off from heaven.
  • Not even seven minutes in. This does not bode well.
  • Aaaaaaaand we're at a prison. It seems that the hispanics and the caucasians do not get along.
  • So there's going to be some sort of a prisoner transfer...I'm guessing that the bus is going to crash or get hijacked or something something, resulting in a WRONG TURN into Cannibal Country. Let's see how my prediction pans out.
  • Oh. My. God. The driving in the bus sequence is some seriously...it's not even greenscreen. It's like...car driving shit from the old days- sitting in a fake car while a moving road is projected on a screen behind them. OH. MY. GOD. What the fuck was the budget on this? 50 cents and a pack of gum?
  • Ugnnnnnn backlot.....
  • Wow, no signal on the cell phone. Shocking.
  • Okay, yup, the bus is getting run off the road by a truck driven by the cannibals. Mmm hmm.
  • Everyone's out of the bus...oh no, now the prisoners are in charge! This is such an unexpected turn of events. They'll get theirs, I'm sure- hopefully soon. Probably in shocking ways, like a sudden arrow through the face or some such.
  • The bus exploded...is it just me, or are explosions in movies rarely exciting?
  • Annnnnd tank top just came running out of the woods. Yeah, right into the mass of hardened prisoners who, uh, haven't seen a woman in a while. She'd be better off with the cannibals.
  • Oh, she's a bad actress. Eliza Dushku, where are you? We desperately need your two facial expressions!
  • I hate all of these people. I can't wait for them to die. This doesn't make for a pleasurable viewing experience, especially when all they do is blah blah blah. It's blah blah blah but it's not character development, which would be fine...instead, it's just people yelling at each other. Wheeeee!
  • Cannibal child was lying in wait underneath some leaves...just in case someone happened to wander by this neck of the woods, I guess.
  • Ooh, the prisoners are slowly killing the cannibal child. Who are the monsters now? WHOOOOO?
  • Another sliced-n-slowly-fall-apart death? Okay, it's just the face, but still. Merrrr.
  • I guess it's just the one cannibal in this flick (aside from the child). It's one of the original dudes...Snaggleface? Three-toe? One Eye? T-Boz? I don't know...one of 'em.
  • Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. 50 minutes in.
  • Boy, with all the woods to walk around in, people always manage to walk right into traps. Weird.
  • Okay, days 29, 30, and 31 better blow my fucking mind, lest SHOCKTOBER die a horrible death. It's not supposed to be this way!
  • This movie is nothing but jerks running through the woods at night. There's no suspense, there's no atmosphere, there are no scares...sheesh. Please excuse me- I'm going to zone out now and think back to the original film...specifically, the scene in the house, where the kids are exploring and then the cannibals come home and they all have to hide and be quiet and the cannibals start eating one of their friends and they're forced to watch...yeah...zoning....zooooooo...ninnnnnng....
  • Oh dear lord, she's such a bad actress.
  • I wonder if that's a deliberate homage to Cannibal Holocaust.
  • How many shells can a pump action shotgun hold?
  • Annnnd the cannibal has kidnapped the girl. Scream scream, drag drag, lick lick, eww eww.
  • Gosh, can't have a horror movie without an eeeevil house with a room made just for torturin' nudies!
  • So many instances of characters punching each other where the fist is clearly kept about 18 inches away from the face.
  • Well, there's lots of blood, I'll say that much.
  • Wow, it's surprisingly easy to take off the top of someone's skull.
  • Gosh, I guess the bad guy is dead...with ten minutes left...
  • OH. MY. GOD. Really? REALLY??? So the heroes drive off in a truck (more bad car effects)...then a few miles away from the house the cannibal is STANDING IN THE ROAD?? This is not possible. THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE. NOT POSSIBLE. FOR MANY REASONS. And he jumps on the speeding truck? And there's atrocious CGI?
  • Okay, I guess he's dead now.
  • Ah, another vehicle explodes. Excitement.
  • This really needs to be the last Wrong Turn. Really. No, really. This series needs to be euthanized.
  • Annnnnnd there's the lame fucking coda that leaves the door open for another film.
Whew, I made it! For a while there, I didn't think I would. Don't you feel like you watched it with me? Aren't you glad you didn't actually watch it with me? You should be. Wrong Turn 3 is a big pile of dook. Horrible, horrible, horrible...in case you couldn't tell what I thought from this post.

Day 26: “Groooaaannnnnnn.”

For Day 27 of SHOCKTOBER, I will be watching something that is widely rumored to be good, very good, or pretty fucking great.

For Day 26, however, I watched Stan Helsing...and after a 3-day stretch consisting of The Toybox, The Nail Gun Massacre, and Stan Helsing, well, the "groan" up there in the post title is coming from me. If I don't get the antidote stat, this bad movie streak may very well be the end of ol' moi.

Stan Helsing is a slacker who works in a video store. On Halloween night, he and three of his friends head off to a party, but they're waylaid in Stormy Night Estates, where Stan has to deliver some tapes to his boss's mom. The town, which used to be a movie studio, has been cursed ever since a fire burned it down ten years prior. Stan and his friends try all night to get past the locked gates and get back to their van.

That's it. Drag that premise out for 90 minutes, douse it liberally with the worst, laziest jokes to ever grace a horror spoof, and you've got yourself a copy of Stan Helsing.

Stan and his friends have to face off against parodies of some of horror's finest villains, which...I don't know, maybe there's some humor to be mined there. If there is, then writer/director Bo Zenga has missed it entirely. Behold, the wit: Pinhead- excuse me, "Needlehead"- has darts and hypodermic needles in his head! Har, har. Freddy Krueger has been transformed into some Flava Flav ripoff (though the only real effort here is the clock around his neck), while Michael Myers is...is...he wears a yarmulke, which I suppose makes him Jewish, which is...funny?


Leatherface wields a leaf blower instead of a chainsaw, while Jason (played by Ken Kirzinger of Freddy vs Jason) wears a hockey jersey in addition to his mask- oh, and his name is...get this you guys, so funny...Mason. Get it? Instead of Jason, he's called Mason! Yeah, hilarious.

I don't see how anyone in their right mind could have read this script and thought it would make a great comedy. I don't see how it's possible that someone read this script and decided to throw money at it. This fucking movie got funding- probably several MILLION dollars. I'd say I don't know why anyone would read the script and then agree to appear in the film, but things are tough all over and it's best to take the money and run. Still, it's obvious that the actors know they're appearing in a piece of shit- they're all a bit dead behind the eyes, and the performances are largely lethargic. Steve Howey did better work on Reba, Kenan Thompson did better work in All That, and hsofga;oVDSFva;sdfa; bjakaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Sorry. I was just getting a bit worked up at how FUCKING INANE this movie is. It's also heartbreaking to see Leslie Nielsen here for absolutely no reason, given nothing to do except dodder about a bit...in drag. ISN'T THAT FUNNY?

A few bloopers are sprinkled in throughout the end credits, and during one bit, one of the actresses- one of the actresses!- sums up Stan Helsing best: "It's so stupid."

Fuck this movie.

Day 24: “Midfolker.”

I'm not sure whether or not you should spend any time reading this, because I'mma be real wit chall: I didn't finish watching The Toybox (2005). Nope. Couldn't do it. I gave it a half an hour, and then I had a little epiphany: yes, I decided that SHOCKTOBER would feature a review every day...and for Day 24, I tried. I really did, I swear. I did a little more Hulu research- after all, The Spell was swell- and I decided to give this film a whirl despite its low rating. Apparently the end makes suffering through 75 odd minutes worthwhile...well, it's up to someone with a stronger constitution than my own to find out. I felt guilty turning it off, as if I was failing to fulfill my duties as proprietress of This Old Blog, but then I figured hey, no one would want me to suffer, right? Right. Life is short- too short, really- to be spent watching caca when I could be watching something rad. Occasionally it's worth pushing through the pain to write a fun negative review...or maybe a film will end up hurting so good. I'm not sure where The Toybox would have ended up in that regard, but I'm already moving on to greener pastures.

Stilted, unnatural dialogue that was virtually all exposition...a molasses-slow plot train that seemed headed to nowhere...unlikable characters...yes, this film truly had it all. As I said, it seems that those who managed to push through found some sort of gold at the end of the painbow, but no your humble proprietress. Nope. Couldn't do it. Couldn't stand the crap for Day 24, sorry- my standards are much higher than that.

Coming up for Day 25: Nail Gun Massacre!

it’s awardenin’ time!

Yes, it's time to bestow yet another Why Didn't They Use the Original Art Rather Than This Crappy Piece of Crap on a Long-Awaited DVD Release of a Beloved Cult Classic? Award! The prestigious award has been given in the past to films such as The Burning, Scarecrows, and Monster Squad, and now it's time for Night of the Creeps to step up to the podium! Hooray!

Original Recipe:


New Coke:

Again I say, HOORAY!

Mind you, by "hooray" I mean "are you fucking serious?".

art imitates life

Gosh, the newest poster for Sorority Row (yanked from Bloody-Disgusting, obvs) really takes me back to my college years.

Ahh yes, so clear are the memories! I miss those halcyon days, all the times my sorority sisters and I would lie around in a nearly-nude-yet-totally-unsexual pile, wearing all the makeup we collectively owned while our sorority house burned and burned behind us. And before you ask- YES, I was always the chick who was staring off into space instead of looking at the camera like everyone else was. Ha ha ha, what a ma-roon!

so i made a movie, part four

I recently made a short horror film called Ludlow, starring Shannon Lark and Elissa Dowling. I thought I'd share all the boring details about how that came to be, because...you know...sharing is caring and if there's one I thing I do, it's care. Part one of the saga is here, part two is here, and part three is here.

We awoke in Baker a day behind schedule but still psyched: we could check into the rooms at the motel in Ludlow around 11am, and then we could start shooting this movie in earnest. Off we drove.
SHANNON LARK: But not before pointing and laughing at the world's largest thermometer, which, like I said, appears to be a gigantic erect cock.
The return trip to Ludlow was uneventful but beautiful. Driving through the Mojave Preserve is an unforgettable experience; the park is a gorgeous, desolate expanse covering over a million and a half acres, replete with joshua trees, boulders, and massive sand dunes. While the reservation fuck up in Ludlow was a massive pain, I was thankful that our solution sent us north through this amazing wilderness.

We arrived at the Chevron station in the late morning and in a shocking turn of events, our reservations were still intact! Our two rooms soon became one, however, when my debit card kept getting declined, despite the fact that I had more than enough money available to cover the costs. In a few days, Shannon Lark would work her magic and get some bank representative on the phone for me- apparently getting a hotel room in Baker and then one the following day in Ludlow is cause enough for the bank to freeze my account, putting me on fraud alert. A minor-ish hassle, but typical of the many obstacles we’d come to face as we attempted to make this fucking movie.

the magic room, #8

Shannon and I quickly unloaded into the room and set about to start shooting. I was well-organized, Shannon brought the performance, and we didn’t fuck around. By 1pm, we’d cranked out about 4 scenes out of the 28 we had slated for the week. We worked fast, but didn’t sacrifice quality. We were on a roll.

We decided to take a quick break so I could think about the next set up. Shannon stayed in the room while I ran across the street to the Chevron to take advantage of the complimentary water and coffee and soda we got as guests of the luxurious Ludlow Motel. Upon my return to the room, Shannon mentioned that the light had suddenly gone out while I was gone.

In fact, ALL the power was out.
SHANNON LARK: I was eating almonds and boom! The power went out. I looked at our dinky lights and couldn't quite believe that they had thrown out the power for the entire building.
After fifteen minutes or so, when the power still hadn’t started up again, I headed to the Chevron, hoping to find out if we’d blown a fuse or the circuit breakers needed tripping or…whatever. The clerks behind the counter were…shall we say, less than helpful.

“Yup, the power’s out.”

“But it’s not out here…”

“The gas station and the diner run on one generator and the rest of the town (!!!!) runs on another.”

“Has the outage been reported? Does anyone know what the problem is?”

“Could be the weather. Maybe someone crashed into something.”

“So…what do we do?”

“This happens all the time, and in the 9 years I’ve been working here, they’ve never given anyone a refund.”

I headed back to the room in a daze. I relayed the tale to Shannon and we just sort of sat there, unsure what to do. The interior was too dark for filming. We couldn’t really do much except wait it out. We ran lines, I worked on my storyboards…and we waited. And waited. And waited.

Shannon was convinced that the clerks at the Chevron could do something to help our situation- she was envisioning some scenario where they’d supply us with extension cords and let us tap into the diner’s generator; she stormed over to the gas station but in the end, didn’t have much more luck than I did. She did, however, get them to at least promise to refund our money if we decided to leave.
SHANNON LARK: By that time, I was getting pissed. $55 a night and no power? I was absolutely certain that they would at least run an extension cord across the parking lot so we could power a couple lights. Stacie went with me and the guy told me they didn't even "own" extension cords. I demanded for the owner (who owns all three businesses in town, that bastard). The manager rushed over to the diner, where the owner was hiding, and came back with a big fat NO. No, we will not give you light. But we will refund your money....
Clearly, we were in a bind- should we stay? Where else could we go? The sun was already sinking lower, and unless the power returned as suddenly as it’d disappeared, another day would be toast. We decided to go over to the diner and grab some chow. We convinced ourselves that this change of scenery would somehow do the trick, that when we returned to the room we’d have lights and we could start filming again. Several hours and two green chile cheese omelettes later, we walked back to the motel in darkness…

…and in darkness we remained. Still no power.

running lines by flashlight is fucking awesome
SHANNON LARK: I wandered around in the trailer park before we hit up the diner, determined to get to the end of this with the locals. I love trailer parks. I grew up in a series of them and love the vibe they give, it's a feeling that's better than sex! Three kids were walking back to their trailer and I asked if they knew anything about the power outage. They said that the town turns it off sometimes, to preserve power. I fiddled around with a box that said "Hotel Generator" but it was covered in spiders. That's when that bastard of an owner rode up in his truck, carrying some dude who was all smiley. "I'm sorry hun, but the power is fer the businesses," he said to me as he rolled up. Like I'm supposed to know who he is. This is the motherfucker who wouldn't lend us extension cords to his generator that we could see from our window. He drove off thinking he was hot shit, and probably made comments regarding banging nails out of a piece of wood.
LUDLOW COFFEE SHOP...excuse me, the LUDLOW CO EE SHOR...sucking up all the power is fucking awesome

Shannon got her Encyclopedia Brown on and tracked down the power company responsible for coverage in Ludlow. The Powers That Be were aware of the problem, but had no idea where it was located, never mind what fixing it would entail. Newberry Springs, a good 30 miles to the west of Ludlow, was also without power. Somewhere out in the Mojave there was a downed line, or…you know, like the clerk said, someone had “crashed into something”. They had no idea when the power would return.

So there we sat, sharing a flashlight, another day lost. Our four-day shooting schedule was now reduced to two.

sitting in the dark is fucking awesome

Sometime after midnight, Shannon passed out. I stayed up, staring at the road atlas, trying to make a decision, trying to figure out what to do if the power was still out when we woke up. Should we head back to Baker and give the Bun Boy Motel a try? Should we head south to Joshua Tree in the hopes of finding a new location? I told the universe very nicely that I’d really appreciate it if the power was back on in the morning, but if it wasn’t, I decided that we’d head back to Baker to try our luck- at least it was a known quantity and we could reshoot the few scenes we’d finished already. I set the alarm for 5:30am and fell asleep.
SHANNON LARK: I fell asleep after one beer, muttering about what we'd accomplished that day. I knew that cramming four days of shooting into two was going to be intense, but the anger over Ludlow's lack of professionalism would fuel my desire. HUZZAHH!!

so i made a movie, part three

I recently made a short horror film called Ludlow, starring Shannon Lark and Elissa Dowling. I thought I'd share all the boring details about how that came to be, because...you know...sharing is caring and if there's one I thing I do, it's care. Part one of the saga is here, part two is here.

I have a weird relationship with conventions, whether they be horror-related, comic book-related, or Wilford Brimley-related. Mind you, I’m talking about when I go as a spectator; setting up a table, selling my crap, and kissing babies is another enchilada altogether. See, the thing is, I really look forward to these shows. I see the guest list and think to myself “Holy crapping crap, I’m finally gonna get to meet that guy who played that thing in that movie!”; I see a panel schedule and I think “Oh my YES, I can’t wait to attend a half-hour reunion of the cast of Children of the Corn Part 36: Malachai is Still Mad!” Then I get to the damn show and…I don’t know, it’s the weirdest thing. I realize that I’m certainly not going to spend $25 so the guy who played that thing in that movie can write his name on a piece of paper for me, and I remember that I don’t give a flying fuck about Children of the Corn Part 36: Malachai is Still Mad. I do a lap or two of the show floor, take a look at stuff, don’t buy anything, and either leave or sit at the table of a friend who’s open for business. Next thing you know, the weekend has come and gone, the convention has packed up and left, and I’m at home thinking, “Why didn’t I talk to anybody?” I swear, I always intend to go table to table talking to people, and I never, ever do. I just don’t have anything to say.
SHANNON LARK: Stacie is 100% right. She got there, and within a couple minutes had run for cover behind my table. I think she was confused by people purchasing autographs, and she even saved me when creepy guys who wanted hugs chased me through the convention. I never have anything to say to the "celebrities" either, it's always so much better when they come up to you because of your work. I've never purchased an autograph from anyone, and honestly hardly made it to a panel unless I was hosting it or directly involved.
So anyway, that’s how Fangoria was for me. I ended up going to about 3% of the panels I thought I would. I spent most of my time with people I see regularly. I came home empty handed, with the exception of the autographed photo Shannon Lark foisted on me.
SHANNON LARK: It's to add to your shrine! Love, Shannon Lark...
Shannon, meanwhile, worked her ass off at the show- it’s true what they say, that a Fangoria Spooksmodel’s work is never done. It was great fun watching contenders for the crown come up to her table to sheepishly ask for advice, while Shannon sat atop her chainsaw-laden steel throne.

the Spooksmodel zoning out at the Walking Distance panel
SHANNON LARK: Haha! I'm such a douchebag.
The Tuesday after the convention, however, it was time to forget about autographs and thrones and get down to the business of making Ludlow. Shannon was due to fly home the following Saturday, meaning we had about four days to shoot a 20-page script. Needless to say, time was…you know…really of the fucking essence. I picked her up at her hotel around 7am and we hit the highway, leaving the Los Angeles traffic behind as we sped past snow-capped mountains, traveling out into the desert.

too early to be picking someone up

We arrived in Ludlow a few hours later and pulled into that new-ish, shiny-ish Chevron station. I recognized the girl behind the counter as the one I’d spoken to just a couple of weeks before, the same one who wrote my name- albeit misspelled- on a cash register receipt and crammed it in the drawer. I walked up and told her we were there for our rooms, and after a moment’s search, she responded with:

“We don’t have a reservation for you, and the motel is all full up.”

I really wish I could’ve seen the look on my face, which I’m sure was a look of squinty-eyed, slack-jawed bewilderment. My synapses were smoking and firing, but what she said simply didn’t compute. All I could do was stammer a pathetic “B-but…but I remember you wrote my name down!” She didn’t deny this- rather she copped to the fact that she simply fucked up. She was sorry we were out of luck, but she…umm…kindly offered us two warm bottles of disgusting iced tea that were sitting on the counter as a parting consolation gift. We reserved rooms for the following day, and this time she swore they’d be ready for us.
SHANNON LARK: Full up?! There were two cars in the motel parking lot. That's it! I think they were bluffing, and being lazy, and incompetent.
So there we were, 11am on the first shooting day, with nowhere to shoot. Shannon and I stood in the Chevron parking lot, enduring the scorching sun while I had a 30-second freak out.

Then we opened the road atlas.

I knew there was no point in retracing our steps back towards Los Angeles- after all, if we’d passed somewhere appropriate for the movie, I probably would’ve found it on my little scouting trip. Our only real option was to push onward in the hopes of finding somewhere new to shoot so we wouldn’t lose the day completely. Looking at our options, we decided to push on to Baker, an additional hour’s drive to the northeast across the Mojave Preserve. I’d passed through there before and I knew the tiny town was home to the world’s largest thermometer- surely Baker would have to have some hotels to accommodate the throngs of people flocking to see such a sight. We hopped in the car and headed to Baker, our middle fingers raised as Ludlow receded in the rearview mirror. I was starting to regret turning down Shannon’s offer of sunscreen as my arms and face came to resemble something hot off the spit at Kenny Rogers’s Roasters.


Along the way, we managed to shoot a few bits and pieces, the highlight of which is probably the scene where Shannon gets to puke. In honor of Ludlow’s dicking us over, we used the nasty iced tea for the effect. A bit later, I was shooting some footage of her walking around by some sweet ass joshua trees when I decided it would be the perfect time to film a scene where Shannon’s character (“Krista”) finds something in the dirt. I began the lengthy walk back to the car to get the…something…when a cactus attacked me. I was just walkin’ on by, minding my own business, when all these cactus spines ended up in my leg. Did you know that those things sticking out of a cactus are pointy? Well, they are! Worse than that, they’re barbed, which makes pulling them out extra painful. Though I spent 15 minutes hunched over pulling them out, it would be days before my leg was cactus-free.
SHANNON LARK: God, that ice tea was nasty! I never have anything "diet" because of all the preservatives and fake sugar crap they put in it. I really did enjoy the vomit scene though, and I got to drive Stacie's car, which made it even more fun. I missed an important exit and had to do some off-roading after I stalled on the highway. Heh. Stacie looked a bit worried, but I assured her this is how we do it in ME-HI-KO.

When Stacie was attacked by the cactus, I saw her bend over for a long time in the distance. I thought at first that she was urinating, and it reminded me how I needed to pee. After I got a signal from her that she was okay, I peed next to my own cactus and felt much better. Diet Tea! Be gone!
I finally made it to the car and back to Shannon, who had no idea what the fuck was going on. I was sunburnt and limping, and I felt like I’d just completed a tour of ‘Nam. None of this matters when it’s time to shoot the movie, though, so I raised the camera, hit record…and the battery promptly died. I gave up on that shot, and we continued on to Baker.
SHANNON LARK: It just wasn't meant to be. Filming sign from the Gods #1. I slept and drooled on my sweater as she drove.
We got there around 1pm and assessed the motel sitch: none of the candidates looked at all like what we needed for this film. There was the Royal Hawaiian, one of those skanky crack-looking hotels that people live in; it was deemed far too frightening and most likely unsafe. There was the Bun Boy Motel- and lemme tell you right now, that’s a name I’ll NEVER find anything less than awesome. The Bun Boy, however, was deemed too depressing to even stay in, never mind shoot in. That left the Wills Fargo Motel- yes, the Wills Fargo. It seemed pleasant enough, and it had a pool. The sign in the window instructed us to check in at the country store down the street, so off we went. The window at the country store featured a large neon sign stating MOTEL CHECK-IN HERE. Still, when I inquired about the motel to the old lady behind the counter, she shook her head and softly said “Oh no, dear- you check in for the motel at the motel,”- practically shushing me and patting my hand as if I were…you know, simple and insane for asking. Eventually someone helped me and we got a room at the Wills Fargo, hoping against hope it’d be good enough a space in which we could shoot this movie.

It wasn’t.

our beautiful room- #3 at the Wills Fargo

Not that it wasn’t…well, “nice”, I guess, doesn’t seem completely appropriate. It wasn’t going to work for Ludlow, however, if only because of the acoustics. The floor was fashioned from ceramic tile, the ceilings were way too high…it was like staying in a shed. It was depressing. The room’s “art”- a single, large “W”, was painted the same color as the wall. Here we were, trapped in Baker on the afternoon of the first day, unable to do anything. Our already-tight shooting schedule got tighter, four days suddenly down to three.

We did what we could- running lines, character work, dipping in the pool, revising shot lists- for as long as we could. Once the sun went down, we figured…you know, fuck it. We’d be heading back to Ludlow in the morning, so we’d might as well blow off the rest of the night. We went to check out the 24-hour taco restaurant nearby, only to find that it wasn’t yet open for business. The only other food options- fast food- left us feeling uninspired, so we bought a six-pack at the convenience store and ate miso soup Shannon prepared for us. I ate mine out of the Wills Fargo’s complimentary ice bucket.

the "W" that blends into the wall, the world's largest thermometer, and Shannon Lark

Sure, this is all a little strange. The strangest thing about Baker, though, is the locusts. Well, I don’t know if they’re locusts, exactly- they’re more like some sort of flying grasshopper things that descend upon the city at nightfall. Thousands and thousands and THOUSANDS of them. So many that walking to the convenience store was like walking through a minefield, except instead of mines there were…you know, locust things. We were pelted by them. They swarmed around streetlights in clouds. They beat against the door to our room, trying to get in. If we opened the door, we’d be lucky to get it closed before we had ten in the room. In the morning, their carcasses littered the streets and parking lots. I’m not exaggerating- it was fucking insane and even a bit frightening. I have no idea why they were there, or more importantly, what they wanted. Shannon likened it to being in an Indiana Jones movie, while I suggested that if we were only three apples high, it would’ve been like we were in The Mist.
SHANNON LARK: Yes, the locusts were insane and I referred to them as "Crunch Crunch Mothafuckin' Crunch!" while we were hit in the face by them on our way to the convenience store. Stacie bought me some really awesome pink glasses with spinning pearls as my payment for the film. We drank beer and ate miso (jesus, that's alot of sodium) and I read aloud a picture book by BASEMAN. After 1.5 beers I dropped all my inhibitions and we took pictures representing the essence of Baker.

Not only did Baker offer a shed, a freezing pool, the attack of the Locusts, AND miso soup in an ice bucket, but Baker is famous for having the largest thermometer in the world. It sat outside our window like a giant, erect cock. What's up with that Baker?
All in all, we got very little accomplished on the first day- virtually nothing, really- but we hadn’t lost our heads and we still had a great time. “Wud up, Baker!” became- and remains- our battle cry. Ludlow, however, was still ahead of us.

"Wud up, Baker!"

The Manipu–

I know we're not supposed to judge books by their covers and all that...but then, if that's really true, why doesn't every form of media simply come in a plain brown package? Youfeelme? In a sense, it would make things easier and perhaps, my life less painful. I mean, when I see this cover...

...and I know it's supposed to be a horror movie and not, say, a heartwarming film about a kindly old man who makes marionettes to entertain retarded orphans or something, I have to admit, my first thought is going to be "This will be the greatest movie ever ever EVARR." That's just how I'm wired...and lemme tell you, it never turns out the way I'd like it to. Never. NEVARR!

Mickey Rooney enters a disused...movie studio? Theatre? TGI Fridays?...eh, some cobwebby place with lots of crazy crap everywhere. He's sporting longish hair, tinted glasses, black gloves, and a black trench coat. I immediately wonder why no one has ever thought to cast Paul Williams in a giallo...it seems like a match made in heaven to me.


Anyhooze, it seems that this mysterious fellow is no longer a star, and that makes him CA-RAZY! He talks to himself, he talks to mannequins, he sees pasty naked old people dancing...one wonders if this is the fate that awaits Tila Tequila.

By the way, if the pasty naked broad on the right was actually Edith Massey, The Manipulator probably would be the greatest movie ever ever EVARR. But it's not, and it isn't.

Mickey Rooney sweats, jibber-jabbers, gnashes his teeth, prances around...and I know that sounds awesome but it's really, really not. Like, it's so not that it exists in a dimension entirely different from what is awesome. I don't think that makes sense- I don't get science- but maybe you catch my drift.

It turns out that Mickey Rooney has kidnapped some woman to partake in his macabre games of madness! She sits in a wheelchair and yells "Mr Laaaaannnnnng! Mr Laaannnnnnnng!" over and over and over and overandoverandoverANDOVERANDOVER and so Mickey Rooney...err, Mr Laaaaannnnnng feeds her some applesauce to get her to shut up.

At this point, I'm 13 minutes into the movie and I want to set myself on fire. I knew I wasn't going to make it through The Manipulator...maybe my immune system isn't what it used to be, or maybe I'm starting to feel my mortality and, you know, 90 minutes is a decent chunk out of the finite time I've got left on this planet. The point is, I decided to give the movie until the 30-minute mark and if I was still feeling like self-immolation was a better option than watching it, I'd turn that shit off.

Then, at the 22-minute mark, this happened:

...yup, Mickey Rooney in a face full of makeup, looking like the stunt double for that broad on The Drew Carey Show (I love the word "broad", as if you can't tell by the way I've been running it into the ground lately, especially in this post). I thought I might be able to salvage something good from The Manipulator yet.

Alas, alack, it was not to be. When Mickey Rooney in makeup can't save the movie, you know the movie is bad...and trust me, "bad" doesn't begin to describe this excruciating pile of dook. I know the director really thought he was giving the audience a window into insane madness, but between the rambling monologues, weird "dream visions", fucking sped-up sequences featuring some sort of harpsichord bullshit, the real insane madness here was mine and mine alone.

Because I possess both rage and honor, not unlike my heroette Cynthia Rothrock, I was true to my word (that's the honor part) and kept The Manipulator in until the timer hit 0:30, when Rooney was parading around in some Cyrano De Bergerac getup. Then I hit stop and pulled the DVD out of the player in such a fury (that's the rage part) that it literally* caught on fire, ensuring that I can't possibly watch any of this dreadful movie ever again.



*the DVD did not catch fire at all

compare and contrast!

So, it's 11:30pm and I'm about to start writing my column for AMC, which is due in the morning. Though I'm kicking myself in the BEhind for starting it so late, it happens every week so I shouldn't be surprised. The topic for this week (ooh, top secret!) has me trawling through my archives in search of the title of a movie I've written about in the past. Said trawling has brought about this Final Girl post, which I'll call Ancient History Regarding the First Time I Was Edited Severely for an Article I Was Asked to Write and How the Results Made Me Want to Kill Myself and No It's Not Something I Wrote for AMC and Yes I Should Be Over It and I Mostly Am Although Reading It Again Brought Up Residual Feelings of "What the FUCK?" and I Probably Shouldn't Even Do This Post But I'm Going to Anyway Because I Feel Like Sharing So There.

The article in question I was asked to write- I stress this because it indicates to me that the editor was at least aware of my writing "style", which is perhaps a bit unconventional as it was born and bred exclusively on this here blog where I am THE BOSS OF ME- was to be a piece about lesbians and Halloween and all the...I don't know, getting the lesbian chocolate in the Halloween peanut butter or whatever. You know what I mean. Like, what horror movies feature lesbos? and that sort of thing. It took me forever to write that damn article, and when I saw the finished product online, well, let's just say that steam came out of my ears. In fact, steam probably came out of most, if not all, of my orifices.

You know, I was going to delete that last sentence because it's really gross and perhaps mostly untrue, but I'm tired and I have a long night ahead of me and at the moment I find it amusing so it stays.

Onward to the worthless past-dredging-uppening! Here are the opening two paragraphs I wrote:
If you’re anything at all like me, then Halloween trumps all as the most wonderful time of the year (that’s right- in your face, Escalator Safety Awareness Week!). There are scary movies on TV ad nauseum, cheap horror DVDs appear in the unlikeliest places (I picked up Salem’s Lot at my grocery store; it was displayed next to the frozen pizzas, and for just a moment I thought maybe I’d somehow passed into The Great Beyond and didn’t know it), and there are rubber-n-cardboard decorations everywhere. Walking past fake cobwebs on my way to find the Q-Tips makes me feel like my local CVS is haunted, I swear. “Mayhaps it was built on an Indian burial ground!” I say to myself, often followed by something like “Ooh look! My shampoo is on sale. Thank you, kind spirits of the underworld!”

Also, if you’re anything like me you can’t eat raisins for too long because after a while you start thinking that they’re not really fruit at all- they’re actually bug bodies- and you get grossed out. That, however, is a discussion for another time. We’re here talk about how you- yes, you!- can make this the most leztastic Halloween ever! I mean, above and beyond bobbing for fanny packs and eating Peppermint Patties until you burst, even.
I mean, it's certainly not the greatest thing ever written (that honor belongs to the novelization of the film 9 to 5, or at least so I thought when I was a wee bonny lass and I saw the paperback in the grocery store and I just had to have it), but it's definitely Final Girl-flavored.

Now...siiiigh...here is what those paragraphs were turned into for publication:
If you’re a horror fan like me, then Halloween trumps all as the most wonderful time of the year. Sure, there are plenty of awful movies out there, but I'm an optimist when it comes to horror films. I simply love a good scare and the adrenaline rush it provides. Even better? There are tons of horror flicks (and a few TV shows) with lesbians in them.

That's why I've put together this handy guide to lesbians and bisexual women in horror.

From the tried and true (Buffy, of course!) to the rare and scary (Robert Wise's The Haunting, for instance) and everything in between (including an almost-forgotten appearance by Amanda Bearse in Fright Night), this guide takes you beyond the lesbian vampire and into the gory world of murdered sorority girls, slumber party massacres and lesbian camping trips gone very, very bad.

So light up your jack-o-lanterns and get your spooky punch ready, because now you can make this the Best. Lesbian. Halloween. Ever.

See? That's what'll get ya steaming orifices. There are words- sentences- WHOLE FUCKING PARAGRAPHS- there that I did not write. "Spooky punch"? Spooky fucking punch? I would never in a million years type those words except for right there where I typed them to make the point that I would never type them.

What's the point of posting this when the article in question is well over a year old and isn't it a little ungracious or unprofessional or something besides? None! There is no point whatsoever! Except that apparently it's a pain that will never ever leave me, much like The Clap. Not that I have The Clap or even know, really, what it is- is it short for chlamydia?- and whether or not it is, in fact, painful. It's just that no one really talks about The Clap anymore, and I think that's a shame.

Yet another shame is the fact that I've now spent half an hour writing this diatribe instead of what I'm supposed to be writing. Damn you, old ire!

Note: posting a picture of this dog in a Halloween costume in a post about an article about the phenomena known as "Lesbian Halloween" does not mean that I'm insinuating that this dog is a lesbian. First, I don't even know if it has a vagina- as Yoda is male, I would assume the dog is also male. Then again, in first grade I dressed up as The Incredible Hulk for Halloween, and the last time I checked (earlier today) I'm a female. Of course, if the dog is a lesbian, that's perfectly fine.

Note the second: I "checked" my "femaleness" by attempting to do some math (I failed miserably) and I spent some time just nagging in a general sort of way. Viva la femme!