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 Fast-forward ten years to the early 1990s, and the satire of those earlier films has been replaced by a full frontal audio-video assault on the very idea of porn.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

 

 

Latex (Michael Ninn, 1995)

After scanning my retina for, oh, I'd say, a minute or two, Michael Ninn's Latex finally granted me access to its shiny, dystopic, dysphoria-causing universe. (Hold up. The first two I understand. But dysphoria-causing?) There are a shit-ton/fuck-ton of close-up shots of crinkly ball-sacks in this movie. Need I say more? I didn't think so. Anyway, the reason I said the film "finally granted me access" was because I think this was my third attempt to watch and review this mid-1990s masterpiece. Yeah, that's right. My third! And you'll notice I didn't call it a mid-1990s "porn" masterpiece. Yeah, the film is that good. Of course, I wouldn't have called it a masterpiece, porn or otherwise, during those initial viewings. I don't know why it took me so many tries. But either way, here we are. I think one of the main reasons I didn't care for the film the first few times was because I was watching it as a porn flick. In other words, I was judging it based on its ability to arouse/titillate. Quirky fun-fact: This was the first film I watched after starting hormone replacement therapy (a.k.a. HRT). I know, pretty awesome, eh? Well, I think so (I've never felt better in my life... it's like I've been reborn or some gay ass shit like that). Now, I'm not saying my estradiol-soaked noodle factory reacted any differently to the slick images Michael Ninn threw my way over the course of the film's two hour running time than my testosterone-soaked one. But it was quite telling that I finally "got" what Ninn was getting at after starting to medically transition. It should be noted that both pre-HRT, pre-everything Yum-Yum and HRT Yum-Yum found some of the sex scenes to be dull/uninteresting. That being said, HRT Yum-Yum practically ate up the style clinic that director Michael Ninn and screenwriter Antonio Passolini pull off with this movie.

As with most movies of this type (porn movies that try to be different), I got a perverse thrill out of knowing that Latex probably frustrated the living fuck out of those who like to masturbate to stuff like this. I don't know, just the mere thought of someone desperately trying to jerk off to this, and failing in spectacular fashion, brings me so much joy.

Now, is it as subversive as the films of Rinse Dream or even Gregory Dark? No. But I found it quite telling that the film's goatee-sporting, quasi-mulleted hero's first line is: "I know you're watching me." A repeated phrase uttered in Rinse Dream's Nightdreams and Dr. Caligari.

Arrested for vagrancy, Malcolm Stevens (Jon Dough) finds himself in locked up in an asylum... Oh, did I mention that the world is a totalitarian, fascist nightmare-scape? Well, it totally is. Under the observation of a bunch of doctors in lab coats (again, very Nightdreams), they're interested in Malcolm because he seems to have a special gift. And while no-one, not even Malcolm, can explain what his special gift is exactly, it's agreed upon that it involves sex in some shape or form.

Spotting a billboard through his cell window, Malcolm fantasizes about the woman on said billboard. A vivacious blonde named Kato (Sunset Thomas), Malcolm imagines the billboard woman masturbating with yellow latex gloves in a retro-style kitchen.

After she's finished pleasuring herself, Kato has sex on a vintage kitchen table with her husband.

The great thing about this scene was... (Sunset Thomas' tits!) I was going to say the attention to detail that went into creating that retro-style kitchen... but I guess her tits were nice. Personally, I dug her black headband. But what can I say? I'm a sucker for hair accessories, especially those that serve a purpose.

Did anyone else wonder what Kato had stocked in those vintage kitchen cabinets of hers? I was kinda hoping she had 'em stocked with pickles, corn chips (with flax-seeds baked right into the chips), salted chickpeas and gummy bears. Damn it, why did I mention pickles? I want to consume an entire jar right this minute. But don't worry, I'll finish this first.

I'm not entirely sure what was going on in the next scene. But I do know that it features Malcolm having sexual intercourse with a "Latex Pony Girl." (A latex what?) It's a fetish thing.

Anyway, while I loved Emerald Estrada's pony look. The spotty, haphazard manner in which Malcolm's taint was shaven was tremendously disappointing. Is there anything more disheartening than a taint that's been improperly shaved? Probably not.

On that yucky note, I think now is as good a time as any to mention the soundtrack. While some people seem to enjoy watching people fuck on film/video, I now find the act itself to be extremely revolting and, not to mention, tedious as all get out. Thankfully, all that gross/yawn-worthy fornicating is set to a non-cacophony of warm synthy goodness cascading over the top of a surplus of choice funky beats. Composed by Dino Ninn, the music heard throughout this movie was a virtual lifesaver. Seriously, their music is a motherfucking godsend. I doubt that could have made it through the whole thing without it.

It turns out that Malcolm, simply by touching you, can "see inside of people." And what he sees is usually sexual in nature.

When he touches Tiffany Million, the doctor currently interviewing him, on the arm, we're treated to a scene where she gets poked and prodded by Sam Cooper, her male assistant.

If you have a thing for rough lesbian sex, colourful latex and bob wigs (blonde and brunette), you'll love the next sequence. Played by Debi Diamond, Lacy Rose, Barbara Doll and Tasha Blades, the wonderfully uncouth antics of these swaying "latex vixens" eat up a huge chunk of time.

Since Malcolm can't visualize himself in his fantasies, he uses an avatar. And at the tail end of the day-glo lez-fest, Malcolm takes the form of a man named Brick Majors. As the synths wind down and the beats begin to fade, Brick spews a modest dollop of creamy, non-watery tartar sauce-esque jizz from the smallish opening located at the tip of his clearly worn out penis.

(Smallish opening?!? Don't you mean his urethra?) Ure kidding, right? That word makes my skin crawl. No, smallish opening is way less upsetting.

I didn't think I would say this, but the acting of Jeanna Fine (Party Doll A Go-Go!) and Jon Dough in that black and white flashback scene during the Julie Show segment (Malcolm eventually becomes a minor celebrity and the toast of the "psychic underground") is pretty fantastic. It was, like, all dramatic 'n' junk. Bravo.

Of course, the top-notch pathos of that scene quickly falls by the wayside when the vapid TV hostess (Juli Ashton) is double-teamed by two of her long-haired crew members. Wait, I think one of the crew guys was played by Tom Byron. Man, does this guy get around or what? In the year 1985, Tom starred in White Bunbusters. In the year 1995, Tom appears in Latex. That's a ten year gap! I wonder how many people Tom penetrated during that period. Hmm, I wonder.

Oh, would you look at that, we're back where it all started: Watching Sunset Thomas getting fondled and fucked on a vintage kitchen table. Great.

Culminating with something called the "mega-splash" (don't ask), Latex, despite the repulsive/repetitive nature of the sex, is always interesting to look at.

On the cusp of being a cyberpunk classic and sort of smart in places, Michael Ninn has made a film that is glossy, smooth and super... cool, I guess. And I'm not just saying that because everyone from start to finish is encased in latex. Or maybe I am. At any rate, if only they could have trimmed some of sex scenes. I know, what's the point of porn without porn? But still, do we really need to see that much fucking? I'm being told that we do. Whatever. Now, where are those pickles at? Yum. No foolin'. I need salt, goddammit!

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.

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