By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
All right, girls, either be lesbos or don't be lesbos, but make up your goldurn minds.
You know what I'm talking about? I must know 30 women out there who go back and forth--homo and hetero.
One week they're making the Sign of the Twelve-Humped Anaconda with a Wal-Mart stock boy; the next week they're rootin' around on a shag rug with Drill Sergeant Polly.
I would think it would get confusing. Don't they ever feel like a three-pronged computer cord in a two-pronged socket, if you know what I mean and I think you do?
I know, I know--it's some kinda rave-club techno-trance ecstasy-head El Lay thing, where everybody just gets in a big ole dogpile and experiences True Love together.
But then why are they so anti-male? Why do they spout this "Men are dogs" stuff if all they care about is women, anyway?
If I'm gettin' ready to eat Mongolian barbecue, I don't have to go on a 20-minute diatribe about how Turkish shish kebab sucks before I can take the first bite.
And what's really weird to me is how many men are into this. Half the porno flicks have major lesbo stuff in 'em.
Isn't this the kinda thing that's halfway interesting when you're 8 years old--watching your sister play doctor with the pigtailed girl down the street--but by the time you're 14 it's like, "Would you please do that somewhere else so I can play Stratego"?
I mean, it's not like you can see anything.
And if you're really and truly a lesbo, then be a by-God lesbo. What's this hanging around Gold's Gym in a chartreuse leotard making guys stare at your rippling abs, then taking your Perky Nubile Bod down the street to Shirley's House of Muffins?
In other words, I don't think these gals are serious. I think the whole thing is some kinda performance-art dealie. It's like: "Look at me, I'm a lesbo; whoops, no I'm nooooot; yes I am. Giggle, giggle, giggle."
And speaking of sexually confused people, this week's flick is Vendetta, the latest erotic thriller by ultra-low-budget sleazemeister George Saunders, who writes, directs, stars, and lures gorgeous women onto his set while hiring semifamous guys like Richard Lynch and Joey Travolta to moon around in the background so he can put their names on the video box.
In other words, my kinda filmmaker!
Vendetta is a sensitive story of husband-wife cops who go crazy after their 10-year-old daughter gets raped and killed by a pervert.
A year later, they're both in "psych evaluation," the marriage is on the rocks, and George is shacking up with major babe Monica Baber, who works in the Rape Division. She's a little kinky with the handcuffs, if you know what I mean and I think you do.
Pretty soon all three of them are assigned to a task force to catch a serial killer, who slices off the gazebos of rapists and then wastes them execution-style.
The bloody post-mortems after each crime reach new heights in imaginative use of the f-word.
But this whodunit quickly becomes a which-crazed-gal-that-George-is-sleeping-with-dunit, as George suffers nasty flashbacks of his dead 10-year-old girl, rolls around in the hay with the entire female cast, and constantly asks himself, "Why?"
George actually reveals his entire bare butt in this movie. Congratulations, George, and please, don't do that again.
Ten dead bodies. Eight breasts. Warehouse aardvarking.
Flaming thug. Grunt-and-groan quickie aardvarking. Bullet to the head.
Handcuff aardvarking. Barroom brawl.
Two motor vehicle chases, with crash and burn. Gazebos roll.
Gratuitous topless bar and whip-cream bath.
Drive-In Academy Award nominations for...
* Monica Baber, as the understanding but kinky girlfriend, for saying, "You still love her, don't you?"
* Vanessa Giorgio, as the oversexed cop ex-wife who says, "Seduction, Jack, that's her weapon."
* And George Saunders, for writing and directing the drive-in way, and for figuring out that the psycho is killing his victims in alphabetical order.
Joe Bob says check it out.
"This film was highly promoted in Des Moines, Iowa, between 1967 and 1969. It was supposed to be a celebration of San Francisco during the Summer of Love.
"In the promos someone sang a song: 'My name is Jack/I live in the back/of the Greta Garbo home for wayward boys and girls.'
"I couldn't see the movie at the time. My Dad was wisely investing my college money in landscaping. I didn't eat, but, man, did he have shrubs.
"I have not heard of the film since. Was it real, or just a starving student's hallucination?"
A video will be awarded for the correct answer. (The winner chooses from our library of titles.) In the event of a tie, a drawing will be held. Send "Find That Flick" questions and solutions to Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, Texas 75221; fax them to (213) 462-5982; or e-mail them to 76702.1435
"I have a movie for 'Find that Flick.' I don't know if it is real or just a bizarre dream I had as a child, but it involves a little kid who says everything twice.
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