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 Fast-forward ten years to the early 1990s, and the satire of those earlier films has been replaced by a full frontal audio-video assault on the very idea of porn.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.

 

 

Nightdreams 3 (Rinse Dream, 1991)

"Just mention On the Waterfront and she gets... randy pants." So much agreeable agreement is nestling softly between the uppermost point of my... prize winning cerebral playtex. Oh, yes, that's right, Nightdreams 3 is here. And while it still could use some more of that sweet, sweet jibber-jabber that I crave so non-lustfully, at least words are uttered. Sure, some of the words uttered are edited in a manner that will make you wish for the quiet that only a quick death by firing squad can provide. But the characters say things and sometimes, get this, they do things. Which I think is a vast improvement over Nightdreams 2. As I always used to say, saying and doing things is the cornerstone of quality cinema. Too bad there are no armpit vaginas or elongated clits in this chapter. You know, if I had a time machine... (You would go back to 1991 and remind Rinse Dream to hire Otis Elwell in order for him make vaginas appear on places where vaginas don't usually go?)  Actually, I was thinking about traveling back to 1951. Once there, I would sneak onto the set of Singin' in the Rain and strangle Gene Kelly to death with an orange extension chord. I could probably do both. Hmm. Which reminds me, is the climate inside Tianna's asshole temperate? (You should ask Lauren Brice's tongue, as it gets all up in that ass.) Your aura reeks of the worst kind of cockeyed smugness. I'm the type of person who would not be afraid to ask such questions. I've seen so many assholes pitter-patter over past ten pseudo menstrual cycles. In other words, I watch and observe with the complete opposite of apathy.       
 

You, me, and everyone with eyeballs, should stick our shaved/waxed/zapped hindquarters in the air with the most reckless form of abandon possible, and thank the lucky lord of taint filth that Tianna and Lauren Brice are in this slab of unequivocal art masquerading as an early 1990s shot on video fuck flick. They're wordy healthcare providers in heels.
 

Call me a saline-based electrolyte solution, but aren't high heel shoes meant to be walked in? (What on earth are you babbling about?) Everyone who isn't repugnant, is wearing high heel shoes. But they don't walk anywhere. ("You're a fascinating woman.") I guess Dale Bozzio from Missing Persons was right about one thing, nobody walks in Nightdreams 3. You've got a factoid forming on your breath: Dale Bozzio performed with Frank Zappa in the late 1970s. Rinse Dream worked with Frank Zappa on the album Thing-Fish (they collaborated on an unfinished musical). Moon Unit Zappa has a cameo in the Spirit of '76. I don't think Sonny Bono knew Rinse Dream, but Cher is Armenian.
 

His cock looks like a vein-adorned U-boat periscope. *ring ring* This Admiral Dönitz' secretary callin', your circumcision has been canceled due to plague-related circumstances beyond the Admiral's control. We ask that you please bear with us. Sucking his cock would be akin to sucking on a rusty drain pipe or a candy cane covered in burnt hair. Speaking of burnt hair, his torso looks like a Brillo pad that has been set alight by a flamethrower. I grew up in an era when flamethrowers were the solution to all of life's problems. But even a flamethrower can't solve this Spironolactone-laced pickle of a I need to pee predicament.
 

Unlike your Grandma's consommé, sex is something that is never consummated behind closed doors in the Rinse Dream universe. Uh-uh. There's always someone watching. In this video sequel movie thing, Dr. Simone Sledge (Lauren Brice) and Dr. Sirk (Tianna) are the doctors doing the observing. Well, actually, Dr. Sledge is doing more than watching and observing. I know, that's what she says she's doing at the start of the video sequel movie thingamajig. But she's got a cause that she seems pretty passionate about...
 

Get this, it turns out that Dr. Sledge is running a clinic for wayward transgenders. Providing trans people with access to hormone replacement therapy and gender affirming surgeries, Dr. Sledge is a pioneer when it comes to trans healthcare. What in the criminy?!? I do remember seeing a copy of Boys Don't Cry at a downtown Blockbuster Video that was erroneously placed in the lesbian section. (You rented movies at Blockbuster?) Nah, I was just killing time before the peep show booths opened. Anyway, helping people transition is seen by her colleagues as uncontaminated quackery. By the way, that annoyingly humour challenged transistor-gender individual you keep seeing on your filter bubble didn't become annoyingly humour challenged after they transitioned (with the help of that poorly funded lab on the outskirts of Tiraspol, Transnistra), they were always annoyingly humour challenged. So, don't crumble cookie crumbs around me when I'm tryin' to realign my Chakras.
 

During the Elizabethan era, Tilda Swinton has a Elizabethan era dick, a dirty, pockmarked Elizabethan era dick. But sometime during the Ottoman Empire, Tilda Swinton wakes up with a pussy that may or may not have a yeast infection, a dusty, windswept yeast infection.
 

A trans man with heavy breasts who longs to be a longshoreman, is paired a bimbo-adjacent cis spark-plug with crimped hair. They have yawn-inducing sex on a bed (a bed that has never once experienced a normal human nap) set to a Jan Hammer-esque slow jam. After this tawaudrey tautou display, Dr. Sirk tries to rebuke Dr. Sledge's approach to helping her patients.  
 

This brings us to one of the best exchanges in the entire Nightdreams trilogy. Interrupted while reading The Nightmare of Reason: A Life of Franz Kafka, Dr. Sirk gets in Dr. Sledge's face. At one point calling the bosomy doc a cupcake filled with strychnine and a bad rash. It's an amazing exchange. The kind of exchange I found several lacking in Nightdreams 2. To make things even better, both Lauren Brice and Tianna's legs are sheathed in white stockings!
 

As if contending with belligerent colleagues wasn't enough, Dr. Sledge has to deal with the partners of her trans clients, who seem unsure that "a battery of hormonal treatments" is was what's best for their significant others. The only thing that makes my ash-coloured atrocity quiver ever-so slightly is the sight of Lauren Brice's hi-falutin backdoor density ripple as a direct and/or indirect result of a slamming jimmy that belongs to an unsupportive parent of a trans person. All this talk of slamming jimmies has made me "ravenous for boy jerky." But first I got some literature in the trunk of my car I'd like to show you.  
 

A lot of recycled ideas are employed... teetering into the realm of self-parody at times, Nightdreams 3 is a slight improvement following Nightdreams 2. By adding more dialogue and fleshing out the characters a bit, Rinse Dream redeems himself... a tad. Plus, having Sharon Kane play a patient added some class to the proceedings. She has tiny ears, frail ankles and delicate wrists. However, her clit is normal sized and her armpits are devoid of cavities... vaginal or otherwise... so, boooo!