White Bunbusters (Gregory Dark, 1985)

Don't worry, I'm going to talk about Shanna McCullough's killer thighs and what is easily the best porn movie theme song of all-time, I just want to discuss the A-Busters' business model before I go any further. Oh, and, just in case you're wondering, Shanna McCullough's killer thighs and the best movie theme song of all-time both appear in Gregory Dark's White Bunbusters, the zany poop-chute compromising fuck-flick that bills itself as: "The World's First All Double-Penetration Shocker!" Okay, from where I was sitting, it would seem that the A-Busters provide a service. As to what exactly this service actually entails is still a bit of a mystery to me. Sure, they have an office. They have tools. They even advertise (their radio spot is heard during the film at one point). But what do they do? They will tell you that they help women overcome their reluctance to allow grown ass men to insert their erect penises into their brownish assholes. But all I saw was a couple of rapists who force their mostly female victims to endure a steady barrage of condom-free cock in every orifice imaginable. Granted, there is an instance where a porn star named Cha-Cha (Rachel Ryan) enlists the help of the A-Busters (she says something about wanting them to loosen her rectum before a big shoot), but more often than not, The A-Busters basically show up at your door (wielding an inordinate amount of crap pipe-related gear and equipment) and sexually assault you... in the ass.

Of course, the reason I think the A-Busters are glorified serial rapists, and not entrepreneurs, is because I'm not currently existing in 1985. You see, back in 1985, door-to-door anal rape startups were seen as no big deal. But in today's outrage obsessed nothing-verse, companies like, The A-Busters; Rectally Yours; Sphinctersoft (softening your sphincter since the mid-1970s); and All Up In Your Bum, Inc., fail within the first two months. And not because of poor business acumen on the part of the owners. But because door-to-door anal rape is frowned upon. And I, for one, I'm glad it's frowned upon, as there's nothing funny about door-to-door anal rape. On the other hand, that doesn't mean I can't enjoy a thoroughly repugnant, occasionally hilarious hour long ode to the door-to-door anal rapists of yore. And that's exactly what this is.

Besides, even the most humour-challenged, politically correct nincompoop will love the film's catchy theme song. Written by Johnny Jump-Up (a.k.a. Antonio Passolini) and Wavy Dave, the song, which is playful, funny, clever and frightfully stupid all at once, will bore its way into your brain, and remain there for the rest of your life. Seriously, it's the kind of song that can and will pop into your head at any given moment.

"I'm going to call the White Bunbusters. And no matter where you are, they're going to bust your fucking buns. White Bunbusters, they're really going to bust some buns. White Bunbusters, they will fuck anything but nuns. "They're the WHITE!!!! Bunbusters! WHITE!!!! Bunbusters! Call White Bunbusters!

The almost five minute long song plays over the opening credits, which boasts a montage of all the wacky degradation we'll be "enjoying" over the next hour or so. If you don't like what you see during the opening credits, you might as well tap out now, as the montage is a pretty accurate sampling of what's to come. However, you would be a fool to "tap out." Unless, of course, you have an aversion to killer thighs. You don't, right? Have an aversion to killer thighs? That would be sad if you did. Anyway, the prospect of being rewarded with the sight of Shanna McCullough's shapely thighs encased in red fishnet stockings is worth any mental anguish you might suffer at the hands of this double-penetration opus.

An opus that opens with John Doe (Tom Byron) plowing into his wife's vagina with his cock. Utilizing the missionary position, John's bunny slipper-wearing wife, Jane (Shanna McCullough), doesn't seem all that responsive to the humping her hubby is putting forth for their mutual benefit. Checking her nails in-between his lackluster thrusts, Jane looks like she would rather be somewhere else.

Noticing this, John decides to mix things up, and sheepishly tries to insert his cock into Jane's anus. This hangdog attempt to penetrate her chocolate starfish does not go over well, as Jane protests by telling John, flat out, that she doesn't want his dick in her ass. Realizing he's in a no win situation, John backs down, and says to Jane: "Will you at least suck my penis." After thinking it over for two, maybe three seconds, Jane agrees and takes John's dingle-doodle  tonsil deep until it spews tiny droplets of cum all over her face and hair.

At work the next day, John and Bob (Greg Rome), his friend/co-worker, are sitting around the offices (their desks, by the way, are made out cardboard boxes) of ACME Proctological listening to Dark Brothers radio (the official radio station of the Dark Brothers). When the topic of anal sex comes up, Bob tells John all about the A-Busters. Actually, the ad for the A-Busters that airs on Dark Brothers radio does most of the legwork when it came to explaining the A-Buster's modus operandi. Either way, it's obvious that John is intrigued.

We get more information about their unique methods in the next scene, when we're whisked into the offices of the A-Busters. From what I could gather, the A-Busters seem to be two guys, Tex (Marc Wallice) and Doc (Steve Powers), who share an office (like ACME Proctological, their desks are made out of cardboard boxes). And every once and awhile, their phone would ring. This usually prompts them to yell "Ayyyyyyy-Busters!" When they do this, you can almost guarantee that some poor woman is about to get her buns busted.

Since it wouldn't be a Gregory Dark movie without Jack Baker, the animated actor appears briefly as a man whose wife (Erica Boyer) won't let him fuck her in the ass. When the A-Busters show up, wearing their trademark orange-tinted goggles, work boots, yellow suspenders and orange baseball hats, they grab Erica Boyer and begin to violate her. Eventually, the A-Buster's cocks wind up in Erica Boyer's vagina and butthole simultaneously. I thought it was odd that the A-Busters felt the need to penetrate Erica Boyer vaginally as well. I mean, they're the "A"-Busters," not the "V"-Busters." Whatever, they ejaculate seminal fluid all over Erica Boyer and Jack Baker pays them. Wait, did Jack Baker just pay two guys dressed like gay disco plumbers to rape his wife? Again, I'm not quite sure what kind service the A-Busters actually provide.

After the A-Busters are finished busting Erica Boyer's buns, you'll notice that Tex and Doc spray their flaccid bun busters with some kind of liquid. I'm guessing it's disinfectant. Sort of like, Lysol Antibacterial Kitchen Cleaner. Except instead of spraying it on counter tops, they spray it on their cocks.

Since Jane still isn't providing John with the anal delights he desires, John decides to stick his cock in the ass that belongs to Bobette (Keli Richards), Bob's wife. However, as Bob clearly states, this is a one time deal. The look on John's face when Bob says, "I can't let you come over every night and fuck my wife in the ass," spoke volumes, as I bet he genuinely thought that this could be a regular thing.

When a budding secretary (Jennifer Noxt) shows up at ACME Proctological for a job interview, John and Bob pepper her with questions: "How's your typing? Do you take shorthand? Dictation? Do you take it up the ass?" Anyone care to guess what happens next? That's right, they fuck her in the ass. Well, one of them fucks her in the ass, the other one makes his home in her vagina.

The great thing about this scene, beside the fact that both cocks move during the double-penetration phase (in scenes like these, one cock typically does the bulk of the thrusting, while the other one just sort of sits there languishing in a vaginal/colon stew), is that Jennifer Noxt's Velveeta is the only woman who is seen standing in this film. Come to think of it, they actually showing her walking at one point. This blew my mind. Seriously. Standing and walking? Madness.
  

After the A-Busters are done busting the buns of a new wave punk porn star named Cha-Cha (Rachel Ryan), she has sex with some guy (Dick Rambone) she had hidden under her bed (talk about filler).

Will John call the A-Busters, and get his rectal reward... Hold on. Let's say he does call them, and they come over and penetrate Jane's a-hole with their cocks. What happens next? Call me crazy, but what I think the film is trying to say is this: After the A-Busters have "serviced" your wife, she will allow you to penetrate her anus with your penis. Personally, if my husband did this to me, I would call the police. That being said, this is the type of film that shows a woman standing and walking for a split-second, while the rest of the time they're usually lying spread eagle or on all fours with their asses in the air. In other words, good luck getting the cops to be on your side.
   

  
On the bright side, all the women, except for Erica Boyer, wear lace fingerless gloves, stockings, high heel shoes during their sex scenes. And I did laugh when Shanna McCullough says to John: "My Mama told me, Jane, don't stick things in your ass."  [If you want to be cool like me and watch White Bunbusters, head on down to Eyesore Cinema and they will hook you up. Tell 'em Yum-Yum sent ya.]

The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage (Gregory Dark, 1986)

The last time we saw Justine and her temperamental guide, they were standing before a man dressed as a lizard in tennis sneakers uttering the phrase, "suck me" everything ten to fifteen seconds. And, thanks to Monique Montage (your go-to gal for all your continuity needs in the Devil in Miss Jones mid-80s-era sequel universe), that's exactly where The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage starts off. After a brief refresher course detailing all the unsavoury business that transpired in The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning, the fourth chapter, yet again under the watchful eye of Gregory Dark (New Wave Hookers), has Lois Ayres' Justine Jones and Jack Baker's Hell Guide doing what they do best: Arguing loudly in the most shrill and politically incorrect manner possible. This particular bit of contention revolves around giving the man-lizard (Kevin James, Johnny Rico from Café Flesh) fellatio. You see, in order to move forward through the bowels of Hell, someone needs massage this thing's penis with the contents of their mouth. And since Justine is the one who wants to continue on their journey, the sucking onus is placed squarely on her harmonious shoulders. Finally relenting after some intense soul searching, Justine drops to her well-defined knees and proceeds to treat the lizard-man's erect penis like it were a frozen treat of some kind.

After the lizard-man signifies that he has been properly gratified by spewing seminal fluid all over the pale lumps on Justine's chest, the film switches over to the documentary-style interviews that were so memorable in the previous chapter. Questioning people from Justine's past, an unseen interviewer asks a priest (Angst Argyle) with an ill-defined Eastern European accent, two ex-boyfriends (Tom Byron and the hilarious Robert Bullock), her uptight brother (Andy Nichols, Max Melodramatic from Café Flesh) and Justine's man-hating first lover (Tantala Ray, Moms from Café Flesh) to share intimate details about her life.

These interviews are the film's strongest non-sex-related element. Well, actually, the strange dynamic that develops between Justine and the loquacious Hell Guide is the film's greatest non-sex asset. But the interviews are definitely a close second. Everything from the acting to the quality of the writing crackled with an unexpected air of competence. I also found it quite telling that none of the interviewees (with the exception of Tom Byron) took part in any of the film's elaborate sex scenes. Speaking of not having sexual intercourse in pornography, I was impressed by the fact that Tantala Ray manages to appear in The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage and Café Flesh, two of the genre's best, and not once is she prodded with a penis. Good for her.

Meanwhile, back in Hell, Justine and her Hell Guide enter a room filled to the brim with horny weirdos of every stripe imaginable. Welcome to the Insane Asylum of Hell! A pungent place where sunglasses, dildos, studded collars, fake lesbians with methodically manicured crotches, and frilly bow-adorned ankle socks co-exist to harpsicord music. In other words, this sequence will take up a large chunk of your day. Mentally taxing, yet fascinating on a couple of unsanitary levels, this fiendish orgy features multiple participants feverishly hurling their lofty genitals at one another in a desperate attempt to become more moist.

Since there are so many people involved, and I'm not prepared to do the amount of legwork it would take to identify the various players, I'll just say that I got a perverse thrill every time a lacy fingerless glove would enter the extremely cramped frame. Even though the hands inside them were mainly focused on prying open flaps of crumpled skin, finishing off stubborn erections, or manipulating slabs of butt-cheek meat in order to gain better access to the rectal riches that lay beyond the crack, the gloves–some red, some white, none taupe, some black–were a joy to see no matter what the hands they covered were up to at any given moment. Because let's face it, sex can be terribly dull to watch some times. Lacy fingerless gloves, on the other hand (no pun intended), are never dull. Out of all the performers who appear in this exhaustive sequence, which included Ron Jeremy in black gloves with fingers and a diaper ("I've always wanted to lick your toes!"), Keli Richards, Steve Powers (who is dressed as a maid), and Erica Boyer (wearing an outfit with a school girl theme and white fingerless gloves), I'd have to say Krista Lane's shoeless nurse with the big hair was my favourite–you know, from a titillating point-of-view.

Taking on racism, incest, domestic violence, and issues involving gender and other seltsamkeit, The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage may be crude and a tad lewd at times, but it repeatedly goes places where most adult films are too afraid to venture. Sure, the scene where two racists are forced to fornicate with members of races they purportedly hate isn't the most subtle jab at bigotry I have ever seen. But the amount of courage it took to stage something so potentially incendiary needs to be at least acknowledged.

In the so-called "Racist Room," Patti Petite, playing a "Southern Belle," lets two "Zulu" warriors (F.M. Bradley and Robbie Dee) stuff her holes with their erect penises. And while that doesn't sound all that interesting (holes are being stuffed all the time), Patti's character, according to the Hell Guide, apparently despises black people. If that premise isn't scratching you where you itch, turn up the new wave-tinged music on the soundtrack and do what I did, try to make out the outline of Patti's feet, which are encased in a pair of white fishnet stockings. On the other side of the racist spectrum, a male bigot (Marc Wallice) finds himself in a situation where his slippery wiener is being double-teamed by Krista Barrington from New Wave Hookers and Purple Passion (Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout Black Chicks). I loved the way Kristara's red stockings seemed to get more and more torn as the scene progressed. It reminded me of this incident in Grade 5 when this freckle-faced girl jumped up on a table and pulled up her corduroy... Wait a minute! How do you know the man's the bigot? Just because he's white? Well, to keep us from becoming confused as to who's the racist, Marc wears a crudely made swastika arm band.

I couldn't help but notice that Gregory Dark seem to share Rinse Dream's disdain for the audience's erection. The way Mr. Dark would insert shots of Jack Baker carrying on like the demented jackass that he is during the sex scenes has led me to believe that the crafty filmmaker would rather be concentrating on the film's story. And let's face it, if it weren't for the crazy hairstyles, chichi handwear, and scrumptious lingerie the sex would have been unbearable.

A closeup shot of a faceless appendage plunging into an equally faceless Cutlass Ciera is nowhere as interesting as the hairs sitting atop Lois Ayres' gorgeous,well-proportioned head. Seriously, every time Lois and her cutting edge hairdo would show up on-screen, my spirit would soar. At any rate, the whole, "I'm not dead!" followed by "You're dead, bitch, and this...is Hell!" exchange that is cornerstone of this skull-laden* enterprise comes to a head when Justine and the Hell Guide (sporting yellow gloves with fingers) are seen, yet again, "discussing" (arguing loudly about) her unique predicament.

Bored with the sameness of the Hell Guide's anecdotes (they all seem to involve floating asses, huge disembodied dicks and talking pig heads), Justine wanders into "The Taboo Room" and comes across something quite disturbing. Of course, I don't want to say exactly what she comes across in there, but let's just say, it's not something you'd want to see on a regular basis. I will say, however, that Lois looked fabulous in a strategically ripped white mess top (one that is beautifully offset by a red bra and lacy red fingerless gloves), silver jewelry (multiple rings, sparkily earrings and a no-nonsense necklace), and a pair of dependable black pumps (three words: ample toe cleavage). Oh, and the hair and makeup by Ruby Midnight and Les Ismore's costume design really shine in this particular sequence.

With an ending similar to that of the original New Wave Hookers (oddly surreal with a touch of menace), The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage may be hampered by overlong sex scenes (and not enough of them featuring Lois Ayres), but the killer music, pseudo-documentary style, bold hairstyles, alluring fashions, and the unrefined wordplay that takes place between Lois Ayres and Jack Baker are real reason to devour this chapter of the epic series. A must-see for fans of Rinse Dream, 1980s pop culture, or anyone who loathes mainstream pornography.

* The comically named Pez D. Spencer (Mr. Joy from Café Flesh) is the film's production designer, and the amount of time he spent combing the head shops of Sunset Blvd. looking for skulls must have been off the charts. Or maybe he just used the same two skulls over and over again? Hmmm, that is almost interesting.

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"God bless the Yumster for all ye have given the children of the world, these fables of cocks and flames and hairspray and shit." ~ Thomas Duke

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The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning (Gregory Dark, 1986)

A lively debate about the difference between a "hoe," a slender tool used mainly for gardening purposes, and a "ho," a derogatory term used to describe a woman who is drawn to the seminal fluid of others, is just one of the many unexpected treats to be found lurking underneath all the untoward thrusting and exhausted panting in The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning, Gregory Dark's epically bizarre interpretation of an adult classic. Fully aware that I have not seen the original Devil in Miss Jones from 1973, or, for that matter, the Henri Pachard-directed sequel, I've elected to skip forward to part three for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I was so impressed with the Dark Brother's New Wave Hookers, that I decided that I would pretty much watch anything he made during that particular era–even something with a title like, "Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout White Chicks." Secondly, the film features the exceedingly luscious presence of Lois Ayres, who, as far as I'm concerned, is the unofficial face of 1980s. The look she sports throughout this film perfectly encapsulates the stylistic temperament of the decade. Using words that are different than the ones I just typed, it is safe to say that the decision to bypass the first two chapters was a relatively easy one.

Blissfully unaware of what I was about to get myself into, it turns out the combination of Gregory Dark and Lois Ayres was so potent, that I almost had a new wave-induced body fever before the opening credits had even finished...crediting. It's true, I had readied myself beforehand like I usually do with some mild stretching exercises followed by a long, vigorous bike ride through the suburban nether regions of my mind. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Lois Ayres (also spelled "Ayers") showering to the awesome strains of "A Christian Girls Problem" by The Gleaming Spires. "I am talking serious drugs / I am talking mental health..."

The camera carefully follows Lois's cleansing motions as she washes every nook and cranny of her tantalizing frame. The sequence also gives us the viewer the chance to familiarize ourselves with her organic structure, which is important because we'll be seeing a lot of it the course of the next seventy-something minutes.

After the shower, we learn that Lois Ayres is playing Justine Jones, a woman who it turns out is the focal point of a some sort of documentary that involves former classmates, ex-boyfriends, clergymen, family members, and others being interviewed by an unseen man with a probing voice. An ex of Justine's named Bill (Tom Byron) is the first to be questioned and tells the mystery man an anecdote about an argument they had over the phone. You see, while Bill was talking, he was also lathering up the crotch of a woman in white lingerie (Jennifer Noxt). With a pink razor in one hand and a telephone in the other, Bill pathetically attempts to do both things at once. As expected, the former wins out as the activity Bill's simple mind would most like to focus on. Hairless in an instant thanks to this wanton act of pubic desecration (cunt-ruining reprobate), Bill's erect penis can be seen burrowing itself inside her many openings with the enthusiasm of an agitated mongoose.

Frustrated by Bill's insistence on fornicating with women who are not her, Justine's heads out to a local tavern. However, before she can go in, she is verbally accosted by a pimp ("crazy ass white bitch!"). Anyway, the scenes on the street and in the bar are the first where we really get a chance to appreciate the immensity of Lois's awesome hairstyle. The way her platinum blonde follicles seemed to reach out toward the sky was awe-inspiring. Complimented by a colourful dress and a saucy pair of red gloves, Justine looked like a cross between Margaret from Liquid Sky and Christina Moser from the Italian new wave group Krisma, particularly during their Clandestine Anticipation period.

Once at the bar, Justine meets a stood up groom in white (Paul Thomas). After some friendly banter, the two of them end up in bed together. Except, they don't sleep, their swollen genitals wind up hammering out an acceptable compromise with one another. I found the groom in white's gentle fondling of Justine's bright red stockings to be entirely satisfying. It was a rare tender moment in a film full of intrusive, ungentle prodding.

The slow motion shot of Justine's hindquarters undulating under the weight of the groom's thrusting bureaucracy was not included in order to crank up the titillation factor, but to accentuate the minor tragedy that was about to unfold. Crashing headfirst into her bed's purple headboard, Justine wakes up alone and naked in a very dark place. After some moments of semi-consciousness, Justine finds herself unwittingly discussing the mysterious allure of homonyms with a demented man dressed in clear plastic. It turns out Justine is in Hell, a fabricated netherworld full of fire and a smattering of brimstone, and the guy in plastic (Jack Baker) is her guide. Of course, she doesn't believe this for a second and demands that she be shown the way home.

The overt strangeness of The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning really starts to come through once the Hell Guide's human horses start screwing. The Hell Guide rode in on a female horse (Chanel Price) and when he's ready take Justine to the first room of Hell, he calls a male horse (Steve Powers) and instructs him to stick his phallus in her lilac-scented poop chute. At first, I thought he was speaking metaphorically, but that's exactly what he ends up doing. This scene doesn't really exploit Chanel's 6ft. 3inch frame (being a horse, she spends most of her time on her hands and knees), which is a shame, but it does emphasize her wonderfully large rear-end, boast multiple participants in fingerless gloves, and features equine-based sound effects.

Entering the first room of Hell, Justine and her guide witness a place where voyeurs are forced to watch others have intercourse until the end of time. Torn fishnets and some strenuous spooning are the highlights of this room's first encounter, one that sees Marc Wallice and Careena Collins getting all up in each other's beefy junk like nobody's business. Only problem being that Marc's upside down banana dick didn't seem to want to remain ensnared inside Jennifer's precisely tuned vagina. The second encounter sees one woman–a silver pump-wearing Amber Lynn, who tosses her fingerless glove out of the arena with a breathless panache–take on two poles at once. A reinvigorated Marc Wallice and a buff Peter North (Party Doll A Go-Go!) insert their man-things simultaneously, causing a bit of a fleshy impasse. Nevertheless, the transvestite in the wedding dress, Justine's college roommate (Kari Foxx), and the three guys in tuxedos watching seem extra excited by the coordinated poking transpiring in front of them. And, of course, I liked the way the perspiration on Amber's red-hot thighs seemed to glimmer in the murkiness of the unflattering light.

Coming face-to-deformed-face with the unsavoury realm of the Slutmen, Justine is about to enter the film's most disturbing room. Animalistic in nature, the Slutmen are the definition of cloaked debasement. Their nasty charm entices Justine to the point where she winds up allowing two of them to ejaculate sperm on her. Thankfully, her wily Hell Guide steps in before she becomes addicted to their sticky deluge. You see, unlike the room where you spend eternity watching sex, this room, where the Slutman is king, you are forced to have degrading sex with them for, you guessed it, an eternity. It also explains why Justine and her Hell Guide are wearing plastic; it's basically raining cum in there.

Having sex forever is exactly what happens to Vanessa De Rio's Mandy (a woman who was in the same aerobics class as Justine). The sequence that follows is an unpleasant enterprise involving five Slutmen taking turns violating Mandy's ample, candy-flavoured clitoris. The pig noises, the gold chains, the deformed faces, and the general moistness of this scene all combined to create something that was truly sick and twisted.

The topless aura of Lois Ayres's bare performance reminded me of a lot of that other great topless performance by Gisele Lindley as the Princess from the Forbidden Zone. Sure, others have been topless in movies before, and, sure, I have a tendency to reference Gisele's blouse-free work in the Richard Elfman directed classic a little too often, but it takes a special brand of actress to be able to not have their performance overshadowed by their perpetual toplessness. The ability to create an air of nonchalance surrounding one's unclothed upper torso is an innate skill, much like, macramé or synthesizer repair.

Having only seen Lois Ayres in photographs and the odd movie clip, I was delighted to finally hear the sound of her non-moaning voice. I was afraid Lois's appeal was going to be limited to the boldness of her killer look, but all that seemed to melt away the moment she began hurling insults at the creeps trying to grope her cookies as she made her way to the bar.

She had a snotty intelligence about her that elevated the proceedings beyond your typical girl goes to Hell, fucks a bunch of guys flick. Her un-PC give-and-take with Jack Baker was hilarious at times and everything from their exchange about poet Robert Frost to their homonym debate ("Do I look like a garden tool to you?") crackled with an unforeseen sharpness. This sharpness came as a bit of a relief, because the film ends with a cliffhanger, and you know what that means? That's right, there's a part four. Woo-hoo?

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New Wave Hookers (Gregory Dark, 1985)

Supporting the spiritual trajectory of a decade's counterculture has never been the strong suit of mainstream Hollywood. Take, for instance, the cinematic output of the 1980s. You can scour the frames of countless motion pictures that were made during that particular period of time and still come up empty in terms of finding era specific examples of the fashion, music, sexuality, and interior design that helped shape the Zeitgeist. The people in charge of making these movies clearly had no real interest in the chromatic explosion that was happening all around them. It's true, there were a handful of directors, costumers, and production designers who understood the full magnitude of what was going down. But for the most part, the film's reek of misguided nostalgia and broken dreams. If the bland and the feckless amongst filmmaking elite weren't going to remove their collective heads from the gaping asshole known as "the sixties" and properly capture the essence of the fingerless glove decade, who would? Pornographers! That's fucking who. The unsavoury world of pornography may have a lot going against it: wanton drug abuse, suspect production values, wonky acting skills, and scene after scene of unappealing double penetration action to name slightly more than a few. But when it comes to crystallizing what it meant to be alive in the 1980s, you should look no further than your average adult film made between 1980 and 1989.

Unashamedly embracing everything that has made the 1980s the shining beacon to all those who desire to be a little less lame in their day-to-day life that is today, New Wave Hookers is the most audacious, most shameless, most stain-covered '80s movie ever made. Fearless when it comes depicting new wave culture gone awry, writer-director Gregory Dark and his crack team of perverts (including set designer Pez D. Spenser) have come up with a premise so simplistic, yet so mind-numbingly brilliant, that it's no wonder it has spawned a truckload of sequels and a remake.

It starts off with two slackers named Jimmy (Jamie Gillis) and Jamal (Jack Baker) sitting on their couch watching pornography – this act itself is groundbreaking in that it breaks the pornographic fourth wall rule, you know, the one that stipulates that there is no porn in porn. Wondering aloud about how great it would be if they were pimps and could control their "bitches" with the sound of that newfangled new wave music.

Drifting off (the television is now nothing but static), the pair awake to find themselves sitting at desks in an office setting. Jimmy, wearing a studded collar and a sleeveless t-shirt with word "anarchy" written on it, and Jamal, sporting a yellow jumpsuit with matching sunglasses, are now in charge of New Wave Hookers Inc., a pimping agency that supplies new wave obsessed women to those who need to be sexually serviced. (It should also be noted that Jimmy, on top of getting a funky new wardrobe, now speaks with a bad Japanese accent.)

Oozing coolness from start to finish, New Wave Hookers grabs you from the get-go with its super-terrific opening credits sequence set to "Electrify Me" by The Plugz (the band responsible for the majority of this film's amazing music). Introducing the female cast through a series of tantalizing clips that feature them posing seductively and pawing at their genitalia, this smokey sequence gently moistens our eyeballs for the gaudiness to come.

The first scene involves a gal named Candy (Desiree Lane) roller-skating into the fledgling pimps' office in a pair of skimpy white denim shorts (she saw their ad in the Valley Gazette). The guys slap some headphones on her, no doubt blasting the latest new wave jam, and before you know it, Candy is feign consuming the cock of Jimmy and Jamal's dog (Steve Powers); yeah, their dog is a man (he also makes the ringing sound for the two phones in the office). Anyway, while the dog is getting his biscuit polished, Jimmy repeatedly slams his turpentine estrada into Candy's minimal compact, and Jamal can be seen masturbating off to the side.

Next up, Jimmy and Jamal send over Palace (Kimberly Carson) and Nora (Brooke Fields) to sexually gratify a fella named The Sheik (Peter North) in his indoor tent. Well, the ladies start off by gratifying each other: licking and groping the usual places. Now, don't get me wrong, the sheer amount of spunk produced by Mr. North was awe-inspiring (I thought their respective crevices were gonna overflow), but it was actually the irregular nature of Kimberly and Brooke's wardrobe and makeup that made the scene the worthwhile entity that it is.

With star quality written all over her, the sight of the angelic Ginger Lynn Allen standing between two nerds craving anal sex was the pinnacle of the film's off-kilter sex appeal. Sent over to satisfy the poop-shoot desires of two college students (Tom Byron and Steve Powers), Ginger plays Cherry, a forthright New Wave Hooker in a chi-chi retro number that was poodle rectum red, drive-in theatre blue, and covered in black polka dots. Even though both her southbound holes end up getting prodded with erect penises simultaneously, Ginger manages to maintain an air of dominance about her. Also, the industrial-sounding music that played during the scene was downright awesome and the assertiveness of Ginger's command for one of the dorks to lick her ankle was greatly appreciated.

The action returns to office where Jimmy, Jamal, and the dog expose Kammy (Kristara Barrington) to a three-pronged attack on a desk. All of them seem to love jabbing at Kristara's foxy organic structure with a profound vigour, yet I found Jack Baker's enthusiasm for her dainty curves to be the most pronounced when it came to heaving the contents of his mouth in her general direction.

This dedication to Kristara's ethically complex body continues over to the next scene. Moving to the storage facility of the New Wave Hooker offices, we find a trio of hookers languishing on a red spinning wheel (a.k.a. the "whoring machine"). The aforementioned Kristara is joined by Desiree Lane's Candy and an unnamed new face (the lovely Gina Carrera). When the wheel stops spinning, the dog ends up straddling Kristara's frequently visited undercarriage (Jimmy beats her softly with a belt), and two vice cops (Greg Rome and Steve Drake) busy themselves with Desiree and Gina. As usual, Jamal jerks off from a distance, shouting race-based encouragement ("Fuck those white bitches").

The coda of New Wave Hookers has a surprisingly surreal vibe about it. However, it shouldn't be that surprising; there is, after all, a giant Residents-style eyeball sitting on top of one of the desks and Jamal does go on this strange tangent about disembodied dicks in Borneo. At any rate, the sight of a recently awaken Jimmy driving through the neon-tinged city, reflecting on all the debauchery that has transpired, while the "New Wave Hookers" theme plays over the soundtrack, was the perfect way to wrap up this titillating masterpiece.

If archaeologists in the not-so distant future want to know what life was like during the 1980s, I say show them a copy of New Wave Hookers. In terms of fashion, crude stereotyping, politically incorrect humour, music, stylistic temperament, and sexual deviancy, you can't get a clearer picture than this. Hey, whatta you know, maybe the infamous scene featuring Traci Lords in devil horns and red lingerie will be included in this futuristic version.

video uploaded by alehouserock

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