Multiple Maniacs (John Waters, 1970)

Quick, alert the mainstream media, I'm about to wallow in my element. Has anyone seen me wallow in my element? It ain't pretty, honey. And it doesn't get anymore hella-mental than my face wallowing in the vicinity of Multiple Maniacs, the John Waters' film that raises the question: What's a rosary job? Licking bicycle seats and sniffing glue, now these are my passions, and they're fully explored in this flimsy excuse for filmed entertainment. Okay, maybe they're not my passions, and they might not even be fully explored. But I do appreciate it whenever a director decides to include either one of them in his or her film, especially glue sniffing, as you don't see it depicted or talked about much nowadays. Oh, sure, you'll see it on reality shows on that channel that used to show ballet in the 1980s (now they only air programs about lumpy, illiterate mouth-breathers who pay money for other people's junk), but you hardly ever see it movies anymore. I love inhalant abuse. (Fuck you, Mr. Drug Dealer. I'm going to the housewares section of my local hardware store to shoplift me some spray paint.) In fact, I love inhalant abuse almost as much as I love cross-dressing. And, get this, this flick features both in the same scene. Yeah, you heard right. A male glue fiend in a dress rapes Divine, with the help of a female glue fiend, sort of in an alleyway. What do you mean "sort of"? You either rape Divine or you don't rape Divine. No, what I mean is, given Divine's ample girth, her body wasn't entirely in the alleyway. Hence, she was "sort of in the alleyway." In retrospect, the glue sniffers were probably just too lazy to pull Divine all the way into the alleyway after they jumped her on the street. In other words, I apologize for implying that Divine was too fat to fit in an alleyway. Anyway, what Divine's unpleasant encounter with the glue sniffers has to do with the film's plot is anyone's guess, but I did enjoy it on some bizarre level that went well beyond my sphere of comprehension.
 

 

In case you're wondering, the reason I pretended that licking bicycle seats was one of my passions was because I own a bicycle with a seat and I thought about licking it after the movie was over. But cooler, less bicycle seat licking heads prevailed, and my bicycle seat is currently languishing in a state of not being licked.
 

 

"Welcome to Lady Divine's Cavalcade of Perversions: The Sleaziest Show on Earth," announces Mr. David (David Lochary), the M.C. of the aforementioned show that purportedly features fags, sluts, dykes, and pimps. Beckoning all those within earshot, Mr. David is selling the living shit out of this show. But get this, it's free!
 

 

Standing before a couple of crudely erected tents, Mr. David eventually catches the attention of three ladies wearing clothes that were inexplicably fashionable at the time this film was made. Now, I don't know who two of the women were, but I know for sure that one of them was played by none other than Mink Stole (Female Trouble, Desperate Living, etc.), my favourite Dreamlander. The second she appears onscreen I had this sudden urge to thrust my hand up her skirt. Which, I've been told, is perfectly normal. At any rate, playing a total square, Mink and her friends reluctantly enter one of the tents. What they see, according to Mr. David, will shock and amaze them.
 

 

Check this out, for absolutely nothing you get to see a guy fondling a bra, a heroin addict go through withdrawal, some armpit licking (and some bicycle seat licking as well), watch the puke-eater eat his own puke, and see two "actual queers" kissing. I'll admit, it's pretty tame by today's standards; in fact, you can probably see all of them acted out on HBO's awesome new show, Girls (eww, you just mentioned something current). Either way, in typical John Waters fashion, he manages to make the perversions on display seem harmless.
 

 

Is Susan Lowe the topless cavalcade pervert in the black pantyhose we see at the beginning of the film wondering when the shows going to begin? I'm just asking because I only know her as Mole McHenry from Desperate Living, and the woman in the black pantyhose doesn't look an angry bull dyke.
 

 

Just as Lady Divine (Divine), the star of the show, is about to go on, a bleach blonde chick named Bonnie (Mary Vivian Pearce) tries to approach her. Not in the mood to hear what some autoerotic coprophiliac has to say, Lady Divine, who is lounging in the nude, tells her henchmen to remove "this slut" from her presence. Instructing Mr. David to "hand me my hose," Lady Divine eventually hits the stage. What's her perversion, you ask? Why her perversion is to pull out a gun and rob the audience of their valuables.
 

 

You see, the "Cavalcade of Perversions" is merely a ruse, a scam, if you will, that Mr. David and Lady Divine run. However, things start to fall apart when a bleach blonde, you guessed it, named Bonnie, enters the picture. Just because his attempt to get Bonnie into the cavalcade was thwarted doesn't mean Mr. David is going to continue being  Lady Divine's lap dog. Telling Bonnie to meet him at Pete's Club (a joint run by Edith Massey), Mr. David, Lady Divine and Ricky (Rick Morrow), Lady Divine's right hand man, head over to the apartment that belongs to Cookie Divine (Cookie Mueller), Lady Divine's always topless daughter, to argue. In other words, engage in some over the top John Waters-style dialogue.
 

 

While Mr. David is making arrangements to meet with Bonnie, Lady Divine is busy being raped by a couple of glue fiends.
 

 

You know how I said certain parts of Multiple Maniacs went well beyond my sphere of comprehension? Well, when the Infant Jesus of Prague grabs Lady Divine by the hand and escorts her to a church, St. Cecilia, I think, things definitely started to sail away from comprehension comfort zone. As we're shown images of a badly beaten man wearing a crown of thorns dragging, what looked like, a giant lower case 't' made out of wood, spliced with a scene that featured Mink Stole, playing a character named "Mink Stole," cramming rosary beads up Lady Divine's ass in one of the church's pews.
 

 

Thankfully, things start to come back to my realm once Lady Divine and Mink Stole leave the church together. Their conversation on the street (Mink's talks about her transient lifestyle), is edited together with a scene that has Mr. David performing cunnilingus on Bonnie; I loved it when David Lochary, during a moment of post-coital bliss, puts his ashtray Mary Vivian Pearce's stomach. I don't know what I like better, David Lochary and Mary Vivian Pearce as a couple or David Lochary and Mink Stole as a couple. On the other hand, the sight of Mink Stole and Divine as a couple was just plain odd.
 

 

Make sure to keep on a close eye on Mink Stole (who is wearing a turban) when she's talking to Lady Divine on the street. As her facial expressions are almost as memorable as the film's infamous lobster rape scene. Carefully examining the scene several times now, I've come to the conclusion that Mink was trying to get John Waters's attention. And instead of breaking character, Mink tries to inform him that some people are were about to walk through their shot by bulging her expressive eyes in a manner that signaled to John that something was up.
 

 

Hold on. Did you say, "lobster rape"? Yeah, yeah, Divine is unexpectedly raped by a giant lobster near the end of the film. If you don't mind, I'd rather talk about Mink Stole's eyes. So, where did the lobster come from? Fine. I'll talk about the lobster. To answer your question, I have no idea. In fact, I don't think anyone really knows where it came from. And that's what makes the scene so special, it just comes out of nowhere. Like, boom! Here's a giant lobster. Suck on that, crustacean enthusiasts.
 

 

As far as classic lines go, you know, like, "I wouldn't suck your lousy dick if I was suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls!" from Female Trouble, or "My saliva tastes funny, and I itch a lot," from Desperate Living, I'd have to say that David Lochary's "I love you so fucking much I could shit," was my favourite line uttered in Multiple Maniacs, as it encapsulates everything I love about John Waters: Sweetness wrapped in a cheaply made veneer of vulgarity.

Mondo Trasho (John Waters, 1969)

I'm currently having one of them inner conflicts with myself. Now, it's not exactly your classic battle between good and evil. It mostly has to do with how much I should share about my Mondo Trasho experience. On the one hand, I want to dive straight into the fishnet pantyhose that contain Mary Vivian Pearce's legs and feet, and swoosh around in them until I hit her overly buttered crumpet with a resounding thud. On the other–hand, that is–I would like to come across as somewhat normal for a change. You see, my imaginary psychiatrist has been telling me over the past couple of years to tone down the weirdness–embrace my inner square, if you will. Well, it's obvious that I haven't been listening to their advice, as my behaviour has only gotten stranger over the past couple of years. Hey, would you excuse me for a second? Yeah, I've gotta go do something... All right, now that that's taken care of, let's get down to brass fishnets, I mean, brass tacks. Oh, you wanna know what I did while I was away? Why aren't we nosy today. Well, if you must know, I just murdered my imaginary psychiatrist with a pair of scissors (for added drama, they were rustier than Jenna Elfman's unoiled foreskin). Don't worry, though, like I said, my shrink is imaginary; in other words, they didn't feel a thing. What can I say? I was getting tired of the way they kept making me feel guilty about my aesthetic point of view, so I eliminated them. Anyway, you heard right earlier when I uttered two of the sweetest words in the English language, "fishnet pantyhose." Just think, the tightly woven, diamond-shaped material is not only clinging against Mary Vivian Pearce's legs and feet, it's pressing against her consecrated lady parts right as we speak. Okay, maybe not "as we speak," as the movie was made some forty plus years ago. However, since time is irrelevant, her fishnet pantyhose, as far I'm concerned, will always be pushing firmly against her labia. Either way, my corporeal essence already feels like it has spent an eternity living inside her net of leggy desire.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, the first ten minutes of John Waters's feature length debut are as perfect as anything that has ever been created in the history of human existence.

High praise. But can you think of anything that can top the sight of Mary Vivian Pearce waiting for a bus in Baltimore while wearing fishnet pantyhose? You can't, can you? And you wanna know why? Because there is nothing that can top the sight of Mary Vivian Pearce waiting for a bus in Baltimore while wearing fishnet pantyhose. Add a foot fetishist, or was he a shoe fetishist? Add a properly motivated foot/shoe fetishist, a nondescript park bench, and the world's most seductively implemented leg cross to the mix, and we're talking titillation served up on a salty cracker.

Forgive me in advance if I fail to touch on any of the scenes that don't involve Mary Vivian Pearce sitting crossed-legged on a park bench. Though, you can't really blame me. I mean, nothing else tops the sight of the underrated Dreamlander wandering, or, in most cases, being dragged unconscious around Baltimore. Oh, and the less that is said about the film's opening scene, the better. If you must know, a man dressed as a medieval executioner clumsily hacks at chickens with an axe while "Jack The Ripper" by Link Wray and His Ray Men plays on the soundtrack.

Leaving her house wearing a pair of strappy heels, white satin short shorts, a black and white cowboy shirt (tucked in, clean and neat), and, of course, a not yet stained pair of fishnet pantyhose, Mary Vivian Pearce walks over to the bus stop. Exuding an electrifying brand of feminine energy, Mary Vivian, who's credited as "The Bombshell," lights a cigarette and straightens out the seams on the back of her fishnet pantyhose as she waits.

This, I thought to myself as she stood there waiting for her bus to arrive, should have been the whole movie. In fact, the marquee should have simply read: Mary Vivian Pearce Waits for a Bus, starring Mary Vivian Pearce. Seriously, what else could you possibly want in a movie? It's got drama (is her bus ever going to come?), it's got action (did I mention that she straightens out the seams on her fishnet pantyhose?), it's got fashion (I love tucked in cowboy shirts), it's sexy (hello? Mary Vivian Pearce is wearing hot pants in the middle of the day), it's got everything.

Unfortunately, that movie quickly ends when her bus finally decides to show up. But get this, an even better movie is about to start. As she is riding along, reading her book–which I'm sure was a real page turner–I kept thinking about the weather. Of course, I don't mean the weather outside. No, dummy, I'm talking about the weather inside Mary Vivian Pearce, 'cause damn, she looked hot. Later on, as she's walking through the park, you can't help but notice that someone or something is lurking in the trees. While their identity is shrouded in mystery, I can already tell that the person hiding in the woods represents off-kilter heterosexuality in its purest, most honest form.

Taking a break on a park bench, Mary Vivian Pearce rests her right leg on top of her left leg to form a cross-shaped mass of legginess, and begins to feed the insects that have started to congregate on the ground near her feet. After she's finished feeding the bugs, she starts to feed herself candy, when, all of a sudden, the Shrimper strikes! The what? The Shrimper (John Leisenring), a highly motivated foot and shoe fetishist. Grabbing her right foot–which makes sense, as it's the appendage doing the majority of the dangling, and, as most people know, a dangling appendage is a delicious appendage–the Shrimper begins to lavish her foot with a justifiably egregious amount of tongue-based praise. Recoiling in horror almost immediately, Mary Vivian Pearce quickly sizes up her new-found foot admirer and decides to let him have it.

Spooked by a judgmental passerby in pigtails pushing a baby carriage (licking a stranger's foot in public is perverted, yet squeezing an eight pound baby out of your vagina is considered normal?!?), Mary Vivian Pearce and the Shrimper relocate to a more secluded area to restart their foot and mouth affair in private. Lying down on a patch of leaves, the Shrimper gets reacquainted with the delicate contours of Mary Vivian Pearce's exquisite feet. As he's laying waste to her toes with a steady bombardment of gentle kisses and subtle caresses, Miss MVP imagines herself as Cinderella, which is a folk tale about a princely shoe fetishist who gets off on putting designer slippers on shrewish women with mannish feet.

Removing the leaves from her hair after the Shrimper is done with her feet (he just wanders off without saying a word), Mary Vivian Pearce staggers from the scene. Dazed and confused (the shrimper's saliva has no doubt started to congeal around her ankles), she wanders onto the road where she hit by a car being driven by none other than Divine (who was distracted by a naked man hitchhiking). Bloodied and badly injured, the blonde bombshell lies motionless in a ditch. What's this? The fabulous Divine is helping her? I'm sorry, but I'm just not used to the sight of Divine helping other people. At any rate, sporting a belly revealing, gold lame toreador outfit, Divine drags the wounded dame into the back seat of her convertible.

Get used to the sight of Divine carrying Mary's sexy body from place to place, because for the next forty minutes or so, that pretty much describes Mondo Trasho in one of them nutshell thingies.

I know what you're thinking: Where the hell is Mink Stole?!? I won't lie, spending time with Mary Vivian Pearce and her fishnet pantyhose-adorned legs and feet has been a real treat. However, as most people know, I'm a Mink Stole man. So where is she? Well, don't fret Mink fans. She plays three characters in the Mondo Trasho universe. Her first appearance occurs when Divine is trying to find some new duds for Miss Pearce to wear. Playing a homeless woman with dainty wrists, Mink Stole lies unconscious in an alleyway while Divine steals her shoes (I loved the way her body twitches ever so slightly as each shoe is forcibly removed from her feet).

Her second character is a fugitive mental patient who inadvertently gets Divine and Mary Vivian Pearce sent to an insane asylum. If you thought Mary Vivian Pearce looked yummy in fishnet pantyhose, you should see Mink Stole's topless, pantyhose-friendly, flapper-inspired loony bin dance number, it will melt your dog's face. The third Mink character is a gossipy woman who makes fun of Miss MVP and her mutant feet while waiting for a bus with another woman.

Mutant feet?!? Don't ask. You can ask me if I cried when Divine removes Mary Vivian Pearce's fishnet pantyhose in a laundromat. Well, did you? Yeah, I did. It was hard for me to watch Divine forcibly yank them off her lithe frame with little to no regard for how it might affect the deviants wallowing in the audience. The thought that there's virtually nothing pressing snugly against her uncrumpled clit caused me to curl up in a ball and start rocking back and forth like a lunatic who drools a lot. It didn't help matters that I began to mumble the fishnet pantyhose credo: "constriction mixed with ventilation" over and over again in the wonkiest German accent this side of Kaiserslautern as I swayed. The same thing would have happened to me had Susan Berman been forced to remove her fishnet pantyhose in Smithereens, a film that was way more punchy when it came to depicting a pair of fishnet pantyhose under duress in an urban environment.

While dragging you know who's lifeless corpse across Charm City, Divine is periodically visited by The Virgin Mary (Margie Skidmore). Appearing to Divine whenever she's in trouble, the virginal robe enthusiast helps Divine get out of a few jams here and there. These particular scenes are the noteworthy in that they're the only one's that feature audible dialogue. Yep, I'm afraid the film, for the most part, is dialogue-free. Which is weird, since John Waters' movies are usually famous for their outrageous dialogue (you'll have to wait until the end of the film to hear anything that matches the verbal wit of his later films).

The film's story is mostly told via John Waters' record collection. For example, when Mary Vivian Pearce is sitting on the park bench with her legs crossed, "Sitting in the Park" by Billy Stewart can be heard on the soundtrack, and when Divine and Mary Vivian bust out of the mental hospital, we hear "Riot in Cell Block #9" by The Robins. But make no mistake, this is a John Waters film that is shot in black and white and features very little dialogue. And if those things don't sound appealing to you, than I suggest you steer clear of this film, even if you're a fan of Desperate Living and Female Trouble. However, if you're a John Waters completist or happen to have a healthy obsession with women's feet, especially when they're encased in nylons, than by all means, check this flick out.

uploaded by baciami64
...

All About Evil (Joshua Grannell, 2010)

Taking care to exclude all the wanton stabbing, slicing, and chopping that takes place in this movie, I like to believe that writer-director Joshua Grannell was thinking of me when he set about making his feature length debut, All About Evil, a loving tribute to old-timey movie theatres, campy acting, unorthodox bloodshed, and ghastly puns (A Tale of Two Severed Titties, The Maiming of the Shrew, The Scarlet Leper, and Gore and Peace). Everything from the crazed manner in which some of the actors uttered their dialogue to the healthy doses of morbid humour sprinkled here and there seemed like it was employed purely for my benefit. The overweight guys with goatees and Type 2 diabetes can have their unbalanced ushers being asphyxiated by the gaping neck hole of a recently decapitated dreamlander, I'll take the sight of a deranged Natasha Lyonne (Slums of Beverly Hills) sewing Mink Stole's still luscious mouth shut over that lurid nonsense any day of the week. Of course, I realize that there isn't much difference between the gruesome act I liked and one favoured by the goatee/diabetes guys, I'm just trying to distance myself from such a gore-tastic demise–you know, for no particular reason.

Inspired by Herschell Gordon Lewis (The Gore Gore Girls) , Doris Wishman (Deadly Weapons), John Waters (Serial Mom), and the Kuchar Brothers (Sins of the Fleshapoids), Joshua Grannell (a.k.a. Peaches Christ) explores our love affair with violent movies (the opening titles feature a montage of altered classic horror posters) and the places we go to see them. Unfolding at the Victoria Theatre, a rundown cinema in San Francisco that shows Blood Orgy of the She-Devils and movies about giant insects on a semi-regular basis, the film follows the misadventures of the late owner's daughter Deb (Natasha Lyonne) and her struggle to keep her father's legacy intact.

Which is going to be tough since her shrewish stepmother Tammy (Julie Caitlin Brown) wants to sell the theatre (last time I checked, ultra sheer pantyhose and chic blazers don't grow on trees). On the night they happen to be screening Blood Feast, Deb is confronted by Tammy with a pen–you know, so that she can sign away her share of the theatre. Except, Deb doesn't sign, instead she sticks the pen in Tammy's neck (and in her chest, fifteen to twenty times) right in front of the Milk Duds. This act of impromptu stepmother-on-stepdaughter violence is accidentally broadcast onto the screen that was supposed to be showing the infamous Herschell Gordon Lewis flick. Projected via the theatre's lobby security camera, a smattering of goth chicks (the goth placement in this film was spectacular) and a scary movie buff named Steven (Thomas Dekker) see the grainy footage of Deb's pen prodding clip and hail it as a triumph of realistic horror.

Seeing this as an opportunity to realize her dream of becoming a world famous director/actress/mogul, Deb re-brands herself Deborah (pronounced De-Bohr-rah) and, with the help of the threatre's elderly projectionist Mr. Twigs (Jack Donner), sets about making more movies in this fashion. Drugging an attractive goth patron (Kat Turner from Inland Empire) wearing a fierce belt, Deborah and Mr Twigs concoct an elaborate murder scenario involving a faulty guillotine that ends up attracting quite the cult following. Murdering people while filming them at the same time is a lot of work, so Deborah and Mr. Twigs hire Veda (Jade Ramsey) and Vera (Nikita Ramsey), homicidal twins recently released from a mental asylum, and a twitchy fella named Aaron (Noah Segan from Deadgirl) to assist them with their murderous tasks.

Even though they hardly say a word, just the mere sight of the Ramsey twins in their cute red usher outfits was enough to send my cult movie senses into overdrive.

It's true, the majority of the audience applauded and cheered at all the gore. I, on the other hand, was enraptured by Natasha Lyonne and her campy as fuck performance as Deborah, a mentally unwell woman determined to keep the art of showmanship an integral part of the movie-going experience. Channeling Mae West (her stairway posture was very "come up and see me sometime") and Divine circa Female Trouble (blowing sloppy air kisses to attentive drag queens), Natasha seemed to relish the chance to ham it up and prove to everyone that she is very much alive. The way her character gradually went insane was greatly appreciated; I hate it when characters go crazy literally overnight. Anyway, you'd have to go all the way back to Freeway 2: Confessions of a Trickbaby to find the wide-eyed actress at this high a level of elated meshugana.

I'm still sitting atop a fence erected to separate two incompatible thought patterns when it comes to deciding whether or not Ariel Hart was wonky on purpose as Steven's non-goth gal pal Judy. Despite not garnering any conventional laughs from the people who approve of things by making ha-ha noises with the holes they consume pie with, I thought she was wonderfully off-kilter. And as most folks know, my favourite kind of performances are the ones that are off ever-so slightly, and Ariel was definitely off...but, you know, in a good way.

While it wasn't as visually flamboyant as I expected, especially when you consider the fact that it was directed by someone with an alter ego named Peaches Christ, All About Evil does feature Mink Stole (Desperate Living) as a librarian and Cassandra Peterson (Elvira, Mistress of the Dark) as Steven's concerned, cleavage-free mother. And in the long run, that's all you really need. Well, that and the wherewithal to understand the importance of proper goth placement.

The eeriest part of this whole experience wasn't the mouth sewing, irregular breast augmentation, chunky guys with goatees, torrential arterial spray, or even the neck hole incident, it was the fact the Victoria Theatre had the exact same flavour as the Bloor Cinema (the freaks to normals ratio was about the same as well). It was kinda similar to the sensation I felt during my screening of Anguish. Except, without the whole "someone is about to cut my eyes out" thing.

video uploaded by Peaches Christ

...

Serial Mom (John Waters, 1994)

Inadvertently causing pussy willows to appear more erotic than they have any right to be, and, not to mention, causing one to reassess their opinion of what kind of damage a leg of lamb can do to a stationary human head if struck multiple times, Serial Mom is a yet another hilarious ode to the sublunary of suburbia and spontaneous homicide from the commonsense mind of John Waters, the patron saint of dementia and difficult to maintain facial hair. Whenever I find myself perusing the aisles of my local supermarket in search of low cost ham and nearly expired couscous, I can't help but observe the staggering amount of female mothers doing the same thing with their smallish offspring in toe and wonder: why aren't they going berserk and killing everyone? Well, this film dares to wonder that exact same query. The stresses of motherhood are put under some sort of microscope type thingy and explored with a playful sense of exaggeration from start to finish, as we follow the murderous inclinations of Beverly Sutphin: mother, passionate sex partner, telephone prankster, and a friend to garbage men everywhere. Putting the names Mink Stole and Patricia Hearst on top of each other in the opening credits was just beginning of the sheer amplitude of excellence this film put forth in its simplistic objective to appall and entertain. Sure, my innate desire to see Mink and Patty aggressively make-out with one another while caressing each other's thighs went unrealized, but they do share the same atmospheric state at one point, so it wasn't a total loss. The bizarre fantasies of a dick-wielding lesbian notwithstanding, the unabashedly perpendicular performance of Kathleen Turner as Miss Sutphin is the pragmatic pith of this particular picture show. (My strap-ons, by the way, are always laced with a non-irritating brand of tenderness.)

Nature loving, environmentally friendly, the affectionate mother of two can turn psychotic, ungentle, and vicious at the mere sight of a slighted family member. While it may seem like Beverly Sutphin's fits of rage are grossly disproportionate, the deranged warmth Kathleen brings to the role makes her violent indiscretions look reasonable, and, to be honest, downright justified at times.

Only a committed actress of the calibre of Miss Turner could make Beverly's bloodlust seem warranted. I'm sorry, Suzanne Somers, but your TV movie version of Serial Mom was probably the equivalent of a wet-nurse who isn't even close to being wet. And the reason being: you're not as awesome as Kathleen Turner.

The art direction and the general coolness of the pop culture references peppered throughout Serial Mom were a constant joy to wallow in. However, they weren't just a bunch of names being dropped in overly smug sort of way. No, when John Waters makes an allusion to something, it's done out of a pure love for the thing or person, not some self-satisfied attempt to appear hip and edgy. Anyway, I loved the scenes that featured Joan Crawford's axe swinging from Strait-Jacket, Justin Whalin reading a Bettie Page magazine (guys who touch themselves to Bettie are neat), the Pee-wee Herman doll, the posters for Connie Stevens' Scorchy and Traci Lords' Shock Em' Dead, and the painting of Don Knotts.

Epic in its succinct depiction of a telephone prankster working at the top of their game, the phone battle between Kathleen's serial killer admiring Beverly Sutphin and Mink Stole's pussy averse Dottie Hinkle is the stuff of unhinged and potty-mouthed legend. I don't know what was sweeter, the sound of Kathleen saying "cocksucker" or the sound of Mink saying "cocksucker." You see, Kathleen says "cocksucker" with an extreme form of self-confidence, while Mink says "cocksucker" with a kind of quiet dignity (plus she looked adorable while saying it). Either way, the way they both said "cocksucker" brought fudge-flavoured tears to eyes.

The always alluring Mink Stole, while taking a bit of a backseat to the almighty Kathleen Turner, does bring a terrific unbalanced neuroticism to Dottie Hinkle, a gardening enthusiast who steals parking spaces and is reluctant about cursing. This is of course all changes when Beverly goes on finally trial for her alleged crimes, as Dottie, in a funny scene, lets the expletives flow freely from her sexy gob.

Looking on, and appearing hotter than ever, was the delectable Patricia Hearst as Juror #8. It's true, Traci Lords' modest role as "Carl's Date" seemed like a letdown in the meatiness department, but Patricia's stellar seated work in the jury box more than made up for the Traci deficiency. Garbed in white pumps (with matching hosiery) and a series of smart business suits, the ravishing Miss Hearst may not say much in terms of words or sentences, but believe me when I tell you that her presence was always felt.

Hell, even Kathleen's character seemed to feel it. Then again, I think the fact that juror number eight was wearing white shoes after Labour Day is what bought her to the accused murderers' attention (she thinks it's a major fashion faux pas). That being said, the constant shots of Patricia's pardoned gams being crossed and uncrossed were greatly appreciated.

In closing, Serial Mom is the funniest Matthew Lillard movie ever made. Oh, and keep an eye for Bess Armstrong (Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again) as a dental nurse.

video uploaded by vandal30

...

Female Trouble (John Waters, 1974)

The demented soliloquy that is the sound of a car aerial being repeatedly thrashed against a supple, un-violated behind was something I unfortunately never experienced as a child (I was so freaking well-behaved). However, through the magic of inelegant cinema, I have since been able to witness this alternative child rearing technique first hand. Where, you might ask, did I find such a film that showed this irregular nurturing in action? Well, I saw it in Female Trouble (a.k.a. Rotten Mind, Rotten Face), John Waters' salacious ode to crime and beauty, that's where. One of the most educational and enlightening films about parenting I have ever had the pleasure of viewing with the seeing part of my face, this moralistic adventure through the disgusting mire that is city living mirrors my life almost exactly. For example, I, too, openly ate meat ball sandwiches in class; cut my daughter's umbilical cord by using my teeth; let my hippie husband breach my vagina with needle-nose pliers; and giggled my flabby hindquarters at a go-go bar. Wait a minute, none of these things happened to me. Talk about gross. I mean, meatballs? On a sandwich? Eww! Seriously though, tantamount to staring directly at some sort of mirror-like object, to see my values shamelessly spewed across the screen like they are in Female Trouble was liked being bathed in a vat of coagulated saliva. Now, the dewy contents of people's mouths invading your clogged pores may not be the most flattering way to describe the sensation of watching a film. But if you've seen the film from beginning to end multiple times like I have, then you know that it's the highest praise one can give. It sure beats the old, "I liked the movie. It was funny" routine.

The film diligently follows the unbalanced life of one Dawn Davenport: thief, stripper, waitress, single mother, prostitute, abused wife, disfigured super-model, liquid eyeliner addict, and mass murderer.

It might be hard to believe, but the reason she became all of those things can be attributed to the lack of cha-cha heels in her life. Her friends, Concetta (Cookie Mueller) and Chicklet (Susan Walsh), were warned as to what might happen if her parents failed to bestow her with cha-cha heels on Christmas morning, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when Dawn flipped out when she discovered they weren't under the tree. Her father tried to tell her that "Nice girls don't wear cha-cha heels," but Dawn was so dead set on cha-cha heels, that she burst from her house in nothing but a puke green nightgown and never looked back. Of course, this leads her to partaking in all the activities I listed above.

The only positive thing to happen to her after the cha-cha heel incident was her acceptance as a regular customer at the exclusive Lipstick Beauty Salon (you have to go through a rigorous audition). Run by the dictatorial Donald and Donna Dasher, Dawn experiences a brief taste of happiness at the selective salon. Brief, because the Dasher's are making plans for Dawn, sinister plans.

There are a lot of things to overly praise about Female Trouble: the unpleasant sex, the bizarre outfits, and the unsavoury posturing. However, it's the outlandish dialogue that keeps me coming back for more, as John Waters' script features some of the most clever one-liners I've ever heard said aloud in a movie. And the quintet of Divine, Mink Stole, Edith Massey, Mary Vivian Pearce and David Lochary are more than up for the demanding task of reciting it in the most exuberant manner possible.

One of the few films that I'll watch with the subtitles switched on, the dialogue is like listening to twisted poetry as spoken by an over rehearsed gaggle of drug addicts. Take, for example, the dinner party scene: the amount of sheer funniness in this segment never fails to bring a single tear to my urethra. A classic, not only in terms of comedy, but in terms of depicting humanity in an honest and forthright manner.

The legendary Divine is spectacular as the misguided Dawn Davenport, the world's most unfit mother. Playing an insolent teen and a grotesque freak in the same movie is one thing, but engaging in a sex scene with yourself on a dingy mattress on the side of the road has to be the pinnacle of high art. Oh, and call me slightly unhinged, but I think Divine has a timelessness about him. I mean, his face is quite appealing. Don't worry, when fantasizing, I try to imagine Divine's head in on Kirstie Alley's body circa 1991 ('92, if I'm feeling extra naughty).

I loved Mary Vivian Pearce and David Lochary's possessed enthusiasm as the sex-hating, beauty-loving Mr. and Mrs. Dasher. The brief exchange they have with one another as they're walking towards Davenport's ramshackle house was priceless; especially Pierce's nervousness over the prospect of rats gnawing on her brand new nylons.

Of course, as with all of John Waters' early films, it's the gorgeous Mink Stole who shines the brightest. Playing Dawn's fourteen year old daughter, Taffy Davenport, the sexy Mink repeatedly makes Meryl Streep look like a dishevelled whore through her unblinking industriousness.

Attacking Waters' dialogue like a ravenous beast, the way the refined actress hurls complaints and insults in this film was the equivalent of listening to a rogue scholar give a commencement speech on the wonders of crystal meth. The mere thought of Mink uttering her lines like a normal person makes me shudder.

Dressing Mink in little girl clothes was also a nice touch, as it causes your aroused state to doubt itself every time she'd stomp into the room. Anyway, Taffy Davenport is hands down the coolest movie character ever to be filmed rubbing Ketchup all over their chests while pretending to be in a car accident on a garbage dump-quality chesterfield.

Oh, and "I wouldn't suck your lousy dick if I was suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls" is not only the greatest line ever to be uttered in a film, it's my new mantra.

video uploaded by a96ozsteak

...