How come any time you meet a new gal who might be willing to have sex with you, every other woman you know can smell that she's in town?
They don't know her name. They don't know where she came from. They just suddenly know that there's a possibility you could be aardvarking on the beach somewhere, and they make it their goal in life to snuff out any happiness you might be about to experience.
I'm talking about this woman named Estelle La Vega, whom I met two weeks ago, and she's the finest dolphin trainer in the greater Alpine, Texas, metropolitan area, but as soon as she checked into the Grapevine Motel 6, I had Wanda Bodine, Vida Stegall, and Cherry Dilday all calling me up at the same moment.
I had so much call-waiting going on, the only thing I ever said in the conversations was, "Can you hold on, baby doll?"--even though I haven't even touched the hair on Wanda's elbow in three years, and last time I saw Vida Stegall, she said I had "the morals of a weasel."
Anyhow, my only point is, what kinda Psychic Friends Network is this that radars out to every woman you've ever made the sign of the triple-humped paddywhack with and says, "Make Joe Bob miserable--a woman is interested in him and she is not completely ugly."
Even the ex-wives get into it. What is this about? Isn't the point of being an ex-wife the "ex" part? Doesn't that mean that they don't ever wanna touch anything on your body unless it involves folding leather and plastic picture-holders?
My second ex-wife, also known as the Anti-Wife, had an APB out on Estelle. She had every Birkenstock-wearing, lard-bottomed bridge-club member in Grapevine ready to plant grenades in Estelle's bra.
"I see you've found you a little chickie" were her exact words.
I said: "She's not a chickie. She's a woman in the full bloom of her sexuality who sits in the same room with a cigar and says, 'I love how you smell when you smoke.'"
"She's just doing that until you marry her."
And then she went into this secret-agent theory of how women lie in wait for men by pretending to like everything they do, until they get a ring on their finger, and then they nuke 'em.
Listen to me, guys. Get your phones checked for taps. Don't turn your ignition without checking under the hood first. And whatever you do, don't take the new girlfriend anywhere near the mall.
They're all watching this First Wives Club thingy. Even the second wives are watching it.
And speaking of nasty relationships, this week's flick is the sensitive story of a redneck restaurateur who blackmails a family of mutant freaks into kidnapping the husband of the woman he loves.
They throw the husband into a dungeon, where he's turned into a brain-damaged zombie and used for experiments by a grotesque weirdo with a head the size of a water buffalo who likes to motor around in his electric wheelchair while using mind-control brain waves to commit crimes through his dimwitted brothers and sisters.
I speak, of course, of Head of the Family, the Gothic horror comedy that stars Blake Bailey as the horny hustler who takes on the local freak family, a la Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Jacqueline Lovell as the oversexed good-time girl who likes to aardvark in a diner storeroom while plotting her gun-toting husband's death.
It's an erotic thriller, but with zombies.
Four dead bodies. Six undead bodies. Eighteen breasts.
Multiple aardvarking. Motorist-gassing. Zombie dungeon.
Head-bashing. Finger-breaking. Foot-kissing.
Giant mutant tongue-licking. (Don't ask.)
Electric-collar shocking. Attempted burning at the stake.
Eye-gouging. Multiple stabbing.
Drive-In Academy Award nominations for...
* Dianne Colazzo, as Ernestina, the retarded sister with the two enormous talents who is good for about...oh...one thing.
* Gordon Jennison, as the thuggish husband who refers to his wife as "Chubby Cheeks."
* Blake Bailey, as the good ole boy who has it so bad for Loretta he risks blackmailing the family of supermutants, for saying, "I can't let her go--being with her, it's like aardvarking with a firecracker."
* Bob Schott, as the giant oaf who says, "Otis not hurt pretty girl."
* And J.W. Perra, as Myron, the giant head in a wheelchair.
Joe Bob says check it out.
Joe Bob's Find That Flick
This week's head-banger comes from...Andy Freeman of Palo Alto, California:
"I once had an opportunity to spend a winter in Denmark. While there, I got to watch television in my choice of three languages I didn't understand. They weren't showing any violence, so the only thing that I could figure out without dialogue was the hooters.
"One flick in particular has haunted me since that time. As near as I can figure out, this struggling artist stud muffin was living near the beach with his big black dog when a somewhat spoiled babe decided to 'get involved.'
"One day she takes the dog for a walk on the beach (the reason involved words, so I don't know what it was, but it sure looked lame). She gets 'spontaneous,' rips off her clothes, and dives into the water.
"After a bit of romping, she notices that she hasn't seen the dog for a while. The man appears. They find the dog, drowned.
"She realizes that killing the guy's dog probably isn't going to make him happy, so she does the 'obvious.' Right--she takes the collar off the dog, puts it on herself, and becomes his 'dog.'
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"No, that's not the end of the movie, but I forget whether he eventually forgives her, or who leaves whom. I'm not even sure that I was able to figure it out at the time.
"I can't tell you what language this film was originally made in. I can say that there were no car chases, explosions, gun fu, undead, or any of the other things that often make for a great movie, but I still want to know what was going on. Can you help?
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. You can also fax them to (213) 462-5982 or e-mail them to Joe Bob on the Internet: firstname.lastname@example.org. (E-mail entries must include a postal mailing address.)
1996 Joe Bob Briggs (Distributed by NYT Special Features