Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West Part 2: Jammy Glands from the Rio Grande (Rinse Dream, 1993)

Contempt... pure, unadulterated contempt. You can feel it pouring off the screen. If your climax-based discharge resembles molasses, monetize that shit, motherscratcher! You be ejaculating liquid gold! It turns out Rinse Dream detests more than just your erection. Mmm-dee-lish! Is there anything more pantie captivating than manic Manitoba-style cackling, distorted monkey noises and Barbara Bush's pre-gray whisker biscuit? I don't know. I lost my ability to discern nonsense in a parasailing accident over Mauna Loa. This isn't your skeevy uncle's porn, this is a targeted hit job by an erudite man who has had enough. He hates porn. The people who watch it, the people who appear in it, and even the people who make it. And Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West Part 2: Jammy Glands from the Rio Grande solidifies this hatred in the most unambiguous terms possible. In the early 1980's (sometime during Yuri Andropov's brief tenure as leader of USSR), Rinse Dream made two films, Cafe Flesh and Nightdreams. Both satirized the whole idea of watching people fuck onscreen. It was pretty compelling stuff and was unlike anything that came before it. Fast-forward ten years to the early 1990s, and the satire of those earlier films has been replaced by a full frontal audio-video assault on the very idea of porn.

 

I can't confirm this, but I think the executives at Zane Entertainment must have given Rinse Dream some production notes after seeing chapter one. Because unlike the other Rinse Dreams sequels (Party Doll A Go-Go! 2, I'm looking in your general direction), where the style and tone is pretty much the same as the first film, the style and tone Jammy Glands from Rio Grande is slightly different. There's less dialogue during the sex scenes, the music is more western themed, and the performers wear their cowgirl hats more often (even though they eventually end up being tossed on the floor mid-hump/lick).
 

In order to get around the restrictions placed on him as a visionary, Rinse Dream has decided to go all-in with the text inserts. HUMDINGER! The humour presented in these spruced up newfangled jammy-gland inserts is sharper and even more biting. Don't get me wrong, the dialogue uttered in this debacle slathered boondoggle still needs to find its way into the Smithsonian. Seriously, put it next to Ernest Borgnine's colostomy bag, stat! It's just that the text inserts are so good at rearranging your internal organs without the express written consent of Major League Bocce Ball (Yo! Look at me! I'm being all Italianski over here). Ugh. Burn the pink bra and white cowgirl boots that Sagebrush Sally is wearing. I think I'm gonna vomit spider eggs.
 

Yeah, I love to watch moist lumpy folds of damaged nerve endings get licked to the sound of bloodcurdling screams and maniacal laughter. I mean, who doesn't? Actually, I don't. (You could fast forward?) What and miss a cheeky text insert? I don't think so... "Rinse Dream makes me feel like... Humpin' Jack Lord's hair." Yes! "Rinse Dream makes me feel... as pretty as red M&M's." Yes! Yes! "Rinse Dream makes me feel like... makin' spam hoagies for a bell tower assassin." Yes! Yes! Yes! This is hilarious, Emma! Rinse Dream has become more self-referential than ever. I also love the way your cum travels to the Lemko-Rusyn People's Republic via your washboard abs. Mount me with your chiseled aqueduct!
 

I still don't see any stockings. But I do see tumbleweeds. But they ain't exactly tumbling... now are they? I wish I could detach myself from my roots and roll across the Ukrainian countryside. (My dainty feet are about to be slathered in toxic sludge... yet he chooses to stare longingly at my bellybutton lint as it blows across the interstate.)
 

When Cricket (Jeanna Fine) and Sagebrush Sally (Tiffany Million) briefly exchange Pulitzer Prize winning dialogue after T.T. Boy finally coughs up his curdled consignment, I think got hint of a plot. It would seem that Sagebrush Sally, who offers Cricket a peak at her photos of Barbara Bush's nether region, is on her way to the ponderosa to drop off a gross of adult diapers. Papa-oom-mow-mow! Have orgasm--will travel. "Tie me up and make me a KY sundae."
 

Getting back to men and women without hats. There once was a pink cowgirl hat that sat upon the head of a limp fuckface. Then the pink cowgirl hat magically appears on Cricket's head as the limp fuckface muff dives. After only a few seconds of wear, Cricket then tosses the pink cowgirl hat towards a wild west yard sale masquerading as a radioactive New Jersey landfill. Don't you ever accuse Jammy-Glands of not possessing any drama or suspense. Talk about being on the edge of one's seat.
 

The painting that Dr. Caligari has delivered to Dr. Avol's place of residence in the cinematic equivalent of discovering first-rate cunnilingus at the world's worst hot dog stand makes several appearances during Jeanna Fine's third junk pile pussy taste test. I think it's safe to say that I could pick out Jeanna Fine's squishy petunia in a pussy lineup with a breathtaking ease. Anyway, I took the repeated shots of the imprisoned teary-eyed wide-eyed subject to represent the sadness Stephen Sayadian must be feeling. He doesn't really want to be making this movie. And we the audience don't really want to be watching it. But here we are... so, let's try to make the best of it.
 

At the end, Zane tease about there being a Chapter 3 in the works. If I was in charge, Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West: Even Cowgirls Get Blue Balls would be about a saloon located on the outskirts of a radioactive swamp that caters to connoisseurs of chicks with dicks. Run by a woman named Cathy Catheter, she tries her best to turn a profit and keep her harem of wily t-girls safe from the roving bands of ravenous pansexual dope fiends that litter the unforgiving landscape. The film doesn't take place on Earth per se, but in a realm called the Ultra-0-Verse (ul-tra-zero-verse). It rains estrogen, and since not everyone wants to drink estrogen, the only water available is unclouded t-girl cum. Which, of course, Miss Catheter bottles and sells at her saloon. Yee-haw!    

 

Huge thank you and howdy to Tom Clark (Vortice Mortale) for hooking me up with this overstuffed hamper chock full of creamy Rinse Dream goodness.

 

 

Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West Part 1: The Pillowbiters (Rinse Dream, 1993)

If you really want worry-free protection, I suppose the sanest course of action would be to get yourself some leak-proof panties. Being fresh and dry in and around your secret cubbyhole area is the highest point of development or achievement in some cultures. Holy embalming fluid! I'm currently typing words about Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West, Chapter 1: The Pillowbiters. That's right, all you lonely rangers and prairie princesses, I finally watched Rinse Dream's bung-lashin'... tongue-gashin'... pantie-splashin'...squish-flashin'... pillow-bitin' cowgirl casserole. High concept mockery with a hint of ridicule, it doesn't merely satirize pornography, no, this 89 dollar laser disc eviscerates it. Let me put it this way: If the audience were farm animals who were afflicted with every barnyard ailment known to flesh, their entrails would be scattered all over the floor. Sure, you could keep toasty by hovering over your steaming guts like a ghost, but you would eventually lose consciousness and drift slowly into a shadow-vacant state of nonexistence. This 89 dollar laser disc dares housebound raincoats to manually accelerate time to a more tranquil period, but there's no escaping the Sword of Damocles that hangs over every single frame. Your orgasm is inevitable, but the quality of your orgasm is in constant danger. And I'm comforted by that.
 

It should go without saying but I'm going to say it anyway. All housebound raincoats fear womanly wetness, and many of the early allusions to panty moistness will no doubt cause them distress. Which is a good thing and a bad thing. It's a good thing in that upsets the housebound raincoat/porn hound status quo. It's a bad thing because the producers could see this as an insult toward a large segment of their audience. The balancing act is extremely delicate. On the one hand, Rinse Dream wants to be able express himself as an artist. On the other, he has to do so under a number of constraints. You could say, there's nothing more constraining than mainstream pornography. However, it would seem that Rinse Dream has managed to find a way to have it both ways. Make art, while at the same time, satisfying the needs of the marketplace.   
 

There were several moments during Nightdreams 2 and Nightdreams 3 where I thought to myself: Wait a minute! This looks and feels like porn! And I think most people who are the cusp of being cool will agree that looking and feeling like porn is not a good look for Rinse Dream. Thankfully, this 89 dollar laser disc does not look or feel like porn. Oh, make no mistake, it is porn. And a frightfully insipid one at times (there are no stockings or tumbleweeds). But the sustained barrage of semi-confusing statements that do not logically follow from the previous semi-confusing statements, keep you agitated and thoroughly entertained.
 

Take, for example, the first five minutes. The sheer volume of uncut giddiness the roll call manages to elicit was off the charts in terms of off-kilter genius. This is the kind of inspired lunacy I want in my Rinse Dream. Every cowgirl is introduced by listing their name, their alias, their occupation and the felonies they've been charged with.

It helps to have some knowledge pertaining to 20th century American pop culture. As the bios are filled with references to Earl Scheib, June Allyson, Albert Einstein, Kewpie dolls, Cheese Whiz, Tallulah Bankhead, Raymond Burr, the sneeze guard at an Omaha Sizzler, Dr. Kevorkian, Ethel Merman, Frank Frazetta, Abraham Zapruder and, of course, my personal favourite, Ernest Borgnine. I've been referring to Ernest Borgnine's ass since at least the late '90s. So, to see Rinse Dream reference him as well, brought a tiny misguided tear to my eye.
 

There's a moment when 'Lil Bit (Tami Monroe) asks Cricket (Jeanna Fine) to "tell her more." What takes place next when more is told can best be described as filmed mental illness. It's what dementia must look like when laid out on a dissecting table. I don't know about everyone else, but if the entire movie had been nothing but 'Lil Bit and Cricket going back back and forth like this, I would have been one happy camper. Oooh, yippee! Me thinks that William Shakespeare wishes his poofy limey ass was a pillow-biter.
 

Gun-toting Swampy (Melanie Moore) is not Wayne Newton's love child, nor is she the heir to the Forbidden Zone throne. She's a ditch of estrogen and wants to put Cricket in a Chicago overcoat. Call me a saddle-sore that's allergic to ointment, but this has the makings of a plot. Yippee-ki-yay!
 

Stay tuned, Cricket has an appointment to dine on Sagebrush Sally's whisker biscuit to the sounds of dogs barking and pots and pans being thrown down a flight of stairs. I needs more Double Vision, yo! They're music should be on compact disc. I think Roz from Frasier should have gotten an abortion. Or, at the very least, thrown her foetus off the Space Needle for charity. It's what I would have done.
 

What's a Boise Hamper Cult? Wait, a hamper cult? A Boise Hamper Cult. Ahhh! This 89 dollar laser disc is starting to glitch out on me. No, wait a minute. It's not. Even the text inserts are beginning to question the well-being of everyone involved in what is becoming real twisto stuff. In hindsight, maybe I should have eased into this. Much in the same way the terminally ill CEO of a semi-successful fertilizer company slides into a lukewarm bath.

 

On Saturday nights, many eons ago, goth-industrial gay boys drank Carling Black Label straight from the bottle. In-between foppish sips, they would look up with a purpose-driven focus. What they saw was chapter one of Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West flickering sinfully on a smallish television propped up on the bar. Everyone in The Catacombs, a nightclub located below the Sanctuary Vampire Sex Bar, would countdown to cowgirl cum, and celebrate the sullying of cow print bed sheets by yelling "squirt!" So, what's a Boise Hamper Cult?!? Ummm...
 

 

Growing up in the USA during the height of the Cold War probably had a profound effect on Stephen "Rinse Dream" Sayadian. Hence, the reason every single one of his films looks like it takes place in a post-apocalyptic El Segundo. The threat of atomic weapons looms large over everything. And these films try to capture what life, or, more specifically, hide the salami, would be like for the survivors. Whether you spew a thick and chunky dollop of man-mayo or leak a short metal tube's worth of expired Crystal Pepsi, the post-nuke landscape will shape your sex life in ways peculiar and strange.
 

Let's be honest, shall we? One moment you're stealing a Playboy jigsaw puzzle from your dad's sock drawer, the next you're being told that it's compulsory for pale Anglo-Irish death MILFs with nary an ounce of Neanderthal DNA to get an orchiectomy. In other words: Don't be afraid to put on the pink cowgirl hat of your condemned dollhouse dreams.

 

 

Party Doll A Go-Go!: Part 2 (Rinse Dream, 1991)

What must have the stained raincoat crowd thought when they inadvertently stepped in front of this chatty smorgasbord in 1991. It's not the clearest vision I've ever had, but I can almost make out their broken little faces crumbling under the sheer of weight of the weirdness transpiring on-screen. No fooling around, the operational integrity of their masturbatory instincts must have been severely compromised by this salacious enterprise. In that, the rapid fire manner in which it belittles the audience's erotic comfort zone is just as prominent as it was in the first chapter. Besides, given the fact that the radioactive lingerie, freeze-dried ornamental grasses, toxic space flowers, rustic fence materials, dangling clumps of rope, and the chain-adorned mattresses from the first film were probably still lying around the no doubt gamy-as-fuck set, and since the cast's genitals were already percolating with a lustful hunger, you'd be totally insane not to make Party Doll A Go-Go! Part 2. Taking what worked from the first chapter, jiggling it ever so slightly and not expanding on it one bit, all Stephen "Rinse Dream" Sayadian (the genius who brought us Dr. Caligari, Nightdreams, and Café Flesh) does is switch up the penetration pairings, change the licking order, move around the excellent music of Double Vision, and, boom, just like that, you've got yourself an equally unwell sequel.

If the first telecast celebrated irregular insertion, then part two downright glorifies it. Behold, as a wide array of avant-garde items are willfully jammed into crevices big and small. This cranny packing is made possible thanks to the generous assistance of the non-unionized members of a demented crew of sentient female persons: Jezabel, the mysterious one; Lannie, the lascivious one; Roxi, the kinky one; Vivian, the seductive one; Tantrum, the hippest one; Vera, the lubricious one; and Echo, the troubled one. All their rambunctious girl biscuits are hungry for firm boy jerky. Well, some are itching for the taste of a special kind of secret secretion. Which just goes to show that one should never assume what one might desire to temporarily have placed/inserted inside a body cavity.

You know you're watching a Rinse Dream project the moment Jezabel (Jeanna Fine) says, "I know you're watching me," just as Randy Spears is about to orally ravage her labia and surrounding girl-area. This paranoid statement is a reoccurring slice of dialogue that permeates most of Mr. Sayadian's work. A sentence that is an obvious a dig at the voyeuristic temperament of pornography, the judgmental way Miss Fine stares directly at the camera, spouting non-sequiturs like a banshee, is meant to be a direct challenge to the audience.

The second coupling features Lannie (Patricia Kennedy) and Roxi (Nikki Wilde), and is all about utilizing your mouth as a weapon for sex. The expression "girl homo" (a Nikki Wilde holdover from part one) is used with a freewheeling wantonness in this segment. In fact, Nikki takes a second to utter the two words just as her entire face is about to become muffled by the crumpled flesh of Patricia's damp expanse; an "artificial man-thing" is implemented when Nikki's face grows tired of being muffled.

A securely built Vivian (Raven) is the next party doll to get her tender places tinkered with. And I say, "tinkered," because this probing sequence is all about using sexual metaphors of an automotive nature. Sporting slicked back hair this time around, Tom Byron goes through the pounding motions, laying into Raven's finely tuned organic structure, as Tantrum and Echo dance wildly in their day-glo underwear, periodically shouting out the names of car models from the 1960s.

Exhausted from all that boogieing, Tantrum (Madison) relaxes against an erratic hodgepodge made out of metal and lace, and proceeds to allow Vera (Bionca) to vigorously lick the appetizing viscosity out of her consecrated cookie juice. The spunky Madison, still the sexiest party doll on call, has the off-kilter vibe down perfectly. I mean, not once does she resort to spouting the hackneyed, "fuck me," "pound my pussy," or the classic, "don't you dare draw energy from my squirting mess, you glorified hat rack!" Even when Bionca is attempting to cram one of her pointer-than-usual nipples into her gaping sex maw, the angelic sex kitten keeps it together like a bitter butler on his last day of closeted homosexual servitude.

The closest thing Party Doll A Go-Go! Part 2 has to a conventional plot is the situation concerning Echo (Tianna) and her inability to stop "The Wiggle." This strange, yet immensely groovy affliction was acquired by the short-haired blonde with the wonderfully circular backside during the encounter with Tantrum and Vera. The other party dolls try to snap her out of it by suggesting that she ingest the contents lying in wait somewhere inside Peter North's purposeful ball sack. I'm no scientist (obviously), but the milky man-medicine seemed to do the trick. Sure, none of it is actually ingested, but only a major tool would deny the healing power of Mr. North's Halifax-reared cock.

At any rate, I'm surprised they didn't make a PDAGG part three. They're fun movies with endless possibilities for crotch-based mayhem. Hello, you've reached Party Doll A Go-Go! Uh-huh.

video uploaded by partydollagogo
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Nightdreams (Francis Delia, 1981)

One of my first experiences with public fornication was when I observed a member of the Belgian industrial group à;GRUMH... orally massage the band's drummer, who was, at the time, conveniently performing an unclothed handstand. This unexpected bit of acrobatic mouth-to-crotch resuscitation had a profound affect on my underdeveloped mind. In that, it corrupted my view of oral sex from that day forward. Now every time I see a film or back alley demonstration that involves head being given, I let out a fake yawn. Well, my friends, perverted and non-perverted, my days of insincere yawning are over, for I have just witnessed the tongue-based resplendence that is the cowgirl cunnilingus scene in Nightdreams, Francis Delia (a.k.a. F.X. Pope) and Stephen Sayadian's disturbing and surreal look into the sexual psyche of an overly lascivious housewife. Set to the electronic twang of Wall of Voodoo's version of the Johnny Cash classic, "Ring of Fire," the beautifully rustic sequence crackles with an unseen artistry. Every nook and cranny is explored with an aggravated brand of devotion, as the trio of campfire cowgirls feast on each others naughty fissures like they were ice cream covered sandwiches laced with liquefied self-assurance.

Now I don't know what exactly it was about this particular scene that changed my oral outlook. But whatever it was, feline-quality, clitoral grooming is now just swell with me.

The other scenes in Nightdreams ranged from unsettling to off-the-wall. Each exploring the depraved fantasies of Mrs. Van Houten (Dorothy LeMay) and featuring a twisted and playful approach to on-screen lovemaking. Though, I have to say, some of the fantasies were downright terrifying in nature. The scene where Miss LeMay's prickly beaver is repeatedly stabbed by the one-eyed meat cleaver owned by a demonic jack-in-the-box, for example, caused my junk to get up, give my houseplants a dirty look, and leave the room.

However, it's not all limp and unmanageable: the scene where Dorothy is admiring her lingerie in the bathroom was on the cusp of being erotic. Unfortunately, a fedora-wearing miscreant bursts into the room and insists on doing her doggie-style over the toilet.

Strangely, the most conventionally arousing scene that didn't involve the inspection of lingerie was the one where a box of Cream of Wheat receives gratifying fellatio from a hungry LeMay, while a saxophone-playing slice of bread frantically toots his horn by the stove. "It really fills a girl up. Nutritious and delicious. Eat it before it gets cold."

You probably noticed that I mentioned Dorothy LeMay a bunch of times in the words typed above. Well, that's because she's in every scene. Which is quite impressive when you think about it. I mean, one moment she's being double-teamed by a couple of hookah-smoking sheiks, and the next she's being poked by a two-pronged phallus in the depths of Hell (Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh watches while chained to the wall). I tell ya, that sounds like a lot of work. Seriously, Dorothy is excellent as the film's unhinged test subject (she's being studied by two research scientists). Her ability to be jizzed on without flinching is one thing, reciting brainsick dialogue with poise and grace is quite another.

The fact that Nightdreams sports money shots in Heaven and Hell only solidifies my opinion that Stephen Sayadian (credited here as Rinse Dream) is a demented genius. For someone to have been able to make iconoclastic films in the artistically bankrupt world of xxx features is a testament to his talent and conviction. Rinse Dream Forever!

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