Sunday, December 25, 2011

WO'C Annual Holiday Special: Jack Frost

Ask any ecclesiastical professional, priest, minister, or nun, “What is the most important Christian holiday?” and they will inevitably respond, “Easter, of course,” although the nun might vary things a bit by also attempting to break your knuckles with a ruler. But more than Church favoritism, the Feast of the Resurrection benefits from a far cooler dramatic premise, which a side-by-side comparison makes clear:

Easter is about zombies.

Christmas is about a baby shower.

So Christmas has to work harder to make you like it, getting you drunk on wassail and buying your love with toys. But what if Christmas could combine its best features – gift-giving, twinkling lights, stop motion animation – with the walking dead? How cool would that be? As it turns out, not that cool, really...

Jack Frost (1998)
Directer:  Troy Miller
Writers: Mark Steven Johnson and Steve Bloom & Jonathan Roberts and Jeff Cesario

We open on The Jack Frost Band playing a holiday gig in the scenic, snow-covered little town of South Park, Colorado. They’re a rising R&B group, comprising a blond Michael Keaton (lead vocals and harmonica), the heavyset nude dancer from The Full Monty (keyboards) and about fifteen other people, most of whom appear to have recently received their AARP discount card. But they've got so much soul that the excess has leeched into the water table, contaminating the local snowmen, and causing a Zuni fetish doll to chase Karen Black around the house.

Meanwhile, in a cutaway he will later fail to stress on his resume, a baby-faced Paul F. Thompkins (actually, he's so young here he looks fetal-faced) nods along to the band's hard-rockin' cover of "Frosty the Snowman," then points authoritatively at the stage and says, “Yeah!”

The next day kids pour out of school for Christmas vacation. Suddenly, Michael’s 11-year old son, Charlie, detects the distant but approaching sounds of war: the chatter of machineguns, the whistle of artillery shells. Thrilled that he might, through a clerical error, have been cast in Red Dawn instead of this heartwarming family bullshit, he runs toward the carnage, which turns out to be a bunch of second graders getting pounded in a snowball fight.

The 7-year olds regard Charlie as a combination of Joan of Arc and Knute Rockne (because like Rockne, Charlie is an exemplar of good sportsmanship, and like Joan he has aural hallucinations), and beg him to end this orgy of wanton slaughter and inappropriate sound effects. Their faith is not misplaced, for Charlie has gleaned wisdom about the ultimate futility of war from Fifth Grade history class, so he parlays with the enemy leader, then sucker punches him in the face with a snowball he hid behind his back. So less Knute Rockne and more Mike Tyson.

At home, the fridge is covered with Charlie’s crayon drawings which, like the Salvador Dali-designed dream sequences in Spellbound, provide clues to the source of Charlie’s rage and dementia. All the illustrations depict his father in a vehicle, constantly on the move, because he’s a musician and must tour, or because he’s being chased by a crowd that didn’t want to hear one more long, peppy, Blues Traveler-like harmonica solo in the middle of “Silent Night.”

But Michael is a loving dad, and when he returns in the middle of the night, he startles his child from a sound sleep and forces him to construct a snowman. He’s also a cool dad, because when Charlie suggests their icy golem needs a nose, Michael pretends to hear “hose,” and temporarily grafts on a penis (thereby establishing the movie's the theme, as a snowman's traditional lack of sex organs will provide much imitation humor to come).

Michael chivvies the boy off to bed, because his wife (played by Kelly Preston, who's pretty hot for a Scientologist) indicated she was in the mood for a full Body Thetan massage. But first, he says the time has come to give his son the harmonica he bought the day Charlie was born, presumably because Charlie has also impregnated some girl. More importantly, the instrument has “magic powers.”

“When you play that,” Michael assures him, “no matter where I am…I can hear it.” So, sitting on the toilet. Standing in line at the bank. Having sex, reading an eye chart, doing his taxes, Michael will constantly hear a child honking inexpertly on a phantom harmonica. I can only imagine that after awhile, death would come as a sweet release. But let’s not get ahead of the story…)

The next day, Michael and Full Monty are leaving for a recording session, because apparently the world is clamoring for a dirty, Delta Blues version of “Good King Wenceslas.” Charlie needs his father to teach him the family's secret hockey technique, “the J-Shot," but Michael's in a rush and can't stay, although he does take a moment to tenderly address his son as “butt boy.”

Now let’s intercut scenes of Michael being a perfectionist as he records his demo album, with shots of Charlie sucking at hockey – missing shots, running into walls, falling over. Then Michael notices the late hour and clutches his face in despair, realizing that he has missed the irreplaceable chance to see his son stink on ice.

Michael offers to make it up to Kelly and Charlie by taking them to a remote cabin in the woods for Christmas.  There's no phone, video games, or TV, but it does come with a Necromonicron in the bedside table (thank you, Gideons) just in case anybody dies and needs to be reanimated as a snowman.

Unfortunately just as they're leaving, Record Company executive Ebeneezer Scrooge calls, and offers to sign Michael and his up-and-coming band of pensioners and Early Bird Special patrons. But only if they play a gig at Scrooge's Christmas party in Aspen. Charlie is outraged that the fulfillment of his father’s lifelong dream means that Michael won’t be at the Cabin when the zombies attack, and he snottily returns the Magic Harmonica for a full refund.

Michael gets halfway to the gig when he decides that he would rather be a good father and husband than a superstar recording artist with a platinum record for his hard-rockin’ version of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” (the official Christmas carol of the Church of Scientology). Having achieved his epiphany, he promptly drives full speed into a wall and dies (proving that it's never a good idea to rush into an epiphany, which is why so far I've mostly just been window shopping and getting some quotes on the internet).

One Year Later. Charlie gets out of school for Christmas break again, but with his father dead, he doesn’t even feel like sucker-punching a classmate. But that night, Charlie sculpts a disturbing simulacrum of his father out of snow, topping it with Michael's signature porkpie hat, but deliberately leaving off the penis.  Then he crawls into bed with the Magic Harmonica (apparently filched from his father’s corpse) and attempts to summon the devil by blowing into it. Unhappily for us, it works. Michael’s soul possesses the pile of slush and its computer generated features come to a hideous mockery of life.

The first thing Snow-Dad does is grab for his junk and howl in existential agony. The second thing is curse his son for giving him a cork for a nose instead of the traditional carrot, because now he can't even switch things around in a sexual emergency and wow this thing got Oedipal all of a sudden...

Still, Michael seems instantly comfortable with his reanimation from the dead (suggesting that there’s no afterlife, else where has he been hanging his porkpie hat for the past year), and when he’s instantly run over by a snowplow, beheaded and gruesomely dismembered, he jauntily dubs his various body parts Ball Two and Ball Three, and makes lame jokes about “separation anxiety.”

In the Faustian tradition, Charlie immediately regrets his deal with the devil. But like Mephistopheles, Michael commands dark, elemental powers, which he uses to harass Charlie's classmates by beaning them in the face with weaponized slush.

This sneak attack inspires Charlie’s friends to heave chunks of ice at his head and chase him to a high cliff, then laugh as he falls off the edge and dangles from a tree root. Thanks, Dad.  Glad you're back.

Snow-Michael saves Charlie with a jump cut, which was a nice gesture but doesn't seem to have done much to shorten the 1 hour and 41 minute running time.  (Oddly, when the movie came out, it was 95 minutes long, so apparently the DVD copy I got was the Restored Sadist's Cut.).

Anyway, they escape on a toboggan, and suddenly it turns into the climax of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, as the entire Fifth Grade pursues them down the mountain (why the District chose to build an elementary school on the edge of a sheer precipice is something that really ought to be brought up at the next School Board meeting) on snowmobiles, skis, snowboards, and what looks like a rocking horse. Needless to say, most of the children involved in the chase die horrible deaths, but since they were apparently working after school for SPECTRE, they had it coming.

“You da man!” the icy golem assures his son.

You da man,” Charlie retorts.

“No,” Michael says, “I’m da snow man!” Anyone old enough to remember this line from the movie’s trailer will probably also recall it was the moment they decided to add the book Final Exit to their Christmas Wish List.

Michael spies on his wife through the window, bemoaning his lack of a penis and considering the feasibility of making one of those ice dildos used in BDSM temperature play (I admit, some of this is subtext). Meanwhile, Charlie develops the same obsession with the weather report that Mel Gibson had with conspiracy theories in Conspiracy Theory, or with blow jobs and Jesus in real life.

Charlie takes Snow-Dad to his secret Ice Cavern (which most 12-year old boys have – hell, I had one and I grew up at the beach), where Michael teaches him important lessons about life, and how not to suck at hockey, while a dark, grim shadow of whimsy hangs over the film.

Meanwhile, Kelly is worried about her son, because he's taken to hauling a snowman around town in his wagon, while carrying on a bickering, would-be comic dialogue; so Charlie is either psychotic, or he misunderstood his agents and thought he was cast in the Morgan Freeman role in Driving Miss Daisy.

Kelly’s solution is to browbeat Full Monty into dragging Charlie to “Shiverfest,” the town’s annual salute to hypothermia, where the kid stands outside the Father-Son Snowman-Making Contest looking depressed. Frankly, in Charlie’s place I’d be feeling smug as hell. Yeah, sure, you kids got a live dad, and you can build a crappy snowman together, but can you imbue it with unnatural life? Can you drag a soul from beyond the grave and trap it in a graven image, merely through your dark mastery of the Hohner mouth organ?  I think not.

Michael goes to watch his son not suck at hockey for once, but somehow being in an ice rink makes him start to melt. Fortunately, the kid Charlie sucker-punched in the opening scene agrees to help him load Michael onto a truck heading for the mountains, because “Snow dad is better than No Dad.” I assume this is one of those Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints billboard slogans that didn’t quite make the final cut.

Charlie and his undead Dad jump off the truck into a Currier and Ives print, where Michael rolls around in the snow and exults, “My balls are freezing!” Amazingly, they’re within easy walking distance of the family's vacation home. Michael puts Charlie to bed on the couch, kisses him with his weird puppet mouth, then places a creepy call to Kelly, who is – strangely enough – not soothed by the sound of her dead husband’s voice telling her to come find her son at a remote, snow-bound cabin, then abruptly ending the call with a click and a dial tone.

Kelly takes her time getting there – apparently there was an episode of The Amazing Race on her Tivo she hadn’t seen – but she does arrive just in time to watch Michael die again. On Christmas. That's two years in a row, which has to be some kind of record.

Everybody tells everybody they love each other, then Michael briefly turns human again so he can croon a heart-rending snippet of a public domain song to Kelly.  Then he dissolves into a whirlwind of snow and ice. But just before he vanishes, Michael says, in a raspy, demonic voice, “I will always hear you...!” So I hope when Kelly eventually takes up with another man she keeps the sex quiet, or she might find coitus interrupted by an angry snowman.

Talk about blue balls.

From Mary, Riley, Moondoggie and I...
Merry Christmas, everyone.


ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Christmas kitties!

I can't wait to see this movie.

acrannymint said...

I was hoping this was the Jack Frost with the tagline "He's chillin' and killin'"

In other news here are pics of my humiliated cats

Debbi said...

Most awesome! Merry Christmas!

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

"...Oedipal all of a **sudden**..." ?!?!?!

Ah-ha-hah-HEM. Little late on that one, punkin'.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

BTW: "Anyone old enough to remember this line from the movie’s trailer will probably also recall it was the moment they decided to add the book Final Exit to their Christmas Wish List."


I'd actually already had my copy off of the clearance-sale table for a little while before I utterly ignored the release of this shit flick, but I still love the line.

Yeah, I *could* be doing something "practical" like dishes or folding the laundry, etc., but the comments amuse me at the moment, so let it ride.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

Lastly, and probably extraneously, I did want to mention that in THESE pix, even MOONDOGGIE looks like he wants to DRAW HUMAN BLOOD. To see the assassin's cold, dead glare coming out of Riley's angry but lovely little face is no surprise, but to see MOONIE pissed-off --- y'all had better come across with some SEVERELY GOOD KITTEH-BUD, ya dig?

He's really got that depressed/planning-to-kill-you-in-your-sleep face on, which makes me a little sad. I'm sure that he will soon regain his usual sunshine-y countenance, but that picture does put one in mind of the need to lock the bedroom door tonight, with teh kittehs on the other side.

And yes, my "cheer" has shot-up exponentially since, in my time zone, annti-xmas is now officially fucking OVER!!! Yeah, it'd be nice to hit the after-consumer-orgy sales, but such is life. As long as this shit is over, I'm happy. -Ish.

Stacia said...

the 1 hour and 41 minute running time. (Oddly, when the movie came out, it was 95 minutes long

Aw, no way. I just watched this while Tweeting about it, as you know -- the YouTube version is also 1 hr 41 mins, and I'm pretty damn pissed to find out there was an extra 6 minutes tacked on somewhere.

The school on the edge of a dangerous cliff made me laugh, only because the high school here in town is sandwiched between the zoo and the cemetery and I've always wondered what could be a worse location for a school. Now I know!

There is nothing sadder than knowing Keaton was in Jackie Brown one year, Jack Frost the next.

Chris Vosburg said...

Jack Frost roasting on an open fire/ Chestnuts nipping at your nose, we'd sing when I was a kid (usually after a rousing chorus of Jingle Bells/ Batman smells/ Robin laid an egg).

The Jack Frost Roasting line kept running through my head, over and over, when I first saw this flick on TV a few years back.

In both this movie and a certain Russo-Finnish production of the same name which I'm sure you know well, the man in charge of all things winter is the nightmare fuel to beat all nightmare fuel.

Dear Mr Keaton, what the hell happened to you, man? What became of the talented actor of "Night Shift", "Gung Ho", "Beetlejuice", and most memorable of all, your work as Dogberry in Kennneth Branagh's production of "Much Ado About Nothing"?

Thanks for the richly deserved skewering, Scott.

Incidentally, I stopped in at the Prime Time Tavern last night, where beautiful bartender Vi Lai made the mistake of giving me the TV remote control and asking me to "find something".

[laughing] [Edward G Robinson voice] Big mistake, sister.

Normally, TVs in bars display sporting events on multiple screens, but last night we did things a little different-- I found "Santa Claus Conquers The Martians" on the Antenna TV channel, and was surprised to learn that every single fucking person in the bar (there was about a dozen in the house) knew and loved this deeply odd film as much as I did, and we all laughed ourselves silly.

So a good time was had by all, and my faith in the essential goodness of the human race restored.

God bless us every one, and Merry Christmas.

Scott said...

I just watched this while Tweeting about it, as you know

Yes I do, and I can only say that it required a Festivus-like feat of strength not to steal this joke:

That sounded like Shiva-Fest, which is probably the most bizarre concept ever.

Just imagine the rides, and fried food stands, and the bands they'd feature at Shiva-Fest '98. Would they have booked Neil Diamond? I think that's a given.

Anonymous said...

From movies, I Know Nothing except what I read here - but cats, cats I know.
Great review, lovely kitties, altho Moondoggie looks a tad depressed to me. Maybe because I am a tad thataway myself tonight.
Am I too late to say Happy Christmas to S and M and R and M? Hope not, cos I'm saying it.Hugs.

Scott said...

Christmas greetings are like Jello, Suezboo -- there's always room for more.

Stacia said...

The "Shiva-Fest" mis-hearing was bolstered by the fact that the song first heard when cutting to Shiverfest was "Rock and Roll Hanukkah." At Shiva-Fest, there would be garment rending instructional booths where they would play Sir Larry's scene from The Jazz Singer on a loop. Also a booth to drop off casseroles. Shiva-Fest would last a whole week but would be very, very sad.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

Don't forget to cover all of the mirrors and to scrub oneself raw, to fully display the heartache of mourning.

(Hell, it's still easier than sackcloth and ashes!)

And take the phones off the hook, if you live back in 1949-ish.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

And as beautiful as they always are, the pain and humiliation and blood-boiling anger in their lovely eyes always makes my heart ache, to see teh kittehs forced into "holiday" annti-xmas-card photo poses...

Found any little, er, "Hershey's kisses" hidden under your pillows yet? Maybe tucked-away in your favorite shoes? I know, I know, Riley is a criminal mastermind, but for Moondoggie, it'd be just the trick to get that bordering-on-tearful look out of his lovely peridot eyes. If Riley allows y'all to ever touch her again, if she hasn't drawn blood yet... stay sharp, kids... you'll never see it coming.

Carl said...

I have never seen this film because, you know, Michael Keaton.

I did not know it featured a mouth organ.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

I have tried, time and again, to go back through what tattered remnants still cling to the inside of my skull, of what was once a skilled, logical, promising brain, looking for something, ANYTHING, anywhere in time, in any medium, that would make Michael Keaton worthy of wasting my oxygen, and to this day, I have NEVER found a ONE.


Granted, I missed MOST of the movies of my childhood & adolescence, when they were in theatrical release, because, y'know, my parents never did like me. But through the wonder of $100-200 VHS tapes that came out a year or so after the movie's debut back then, I could then RENT said overpriced VHS (and fuck yes, Beta was better, analog will ALWAYS be superior because it captures THE ENTIRE SOUND WAVE, and Clapton was right about SAVING VINYL!!!) for three to ten dollars a pop, but at last for that money, you could invite as many people to come watch on your rented plastic-suitcase-VCR as wanted to do so, and y'all could watch it a couple of times before it hadda be back THE NEXT FUCKING DAY.

I used to feel sorry for all of the little "family-owned" VHS clip-joints/ripoff parlours who were destroyed in teh momentous wake of motherfucking BLOCKBUSTER, but considering how much HIGHER that they were, the ones out in the sticks, where people were less likely to drive TO a Blockbuster or to sign-up for a Netflix membership when IT first came along --- when you worked-out the expenditures after all, either way, ya got fleeced. So to the regally-moronic assholes of Vidiots and Vidiots Too, of West Redneckistan and Far East Redneckistan --- YA GOT WHATCHA DESERVED, BITCHES!!!!!!

ANNNYYYYYYFUCKIN'WAYYYYY... for the fucking LIFE OF ME, I cannot remember a single TV show, SNL sketch (one of the WORST hosts EVER) (unless I'm hallucinating that episode from whole cloth), interview, talk show bullshit handjob (yes, that's what I said!), or, horribly enough, films that actually got FUNDED with THIS tone-deaf, sexy-as-herpes jackal as the "STAR" --- I still cannot wrap my mind around the concept that this balding bunghole-on-legs even so much as got to AUDITION FOR THE. FUCKING. WORST. FUCKING. CONCEPT. OF. **BATMAN.** FUCKING. EVER. !!!!!!

I've admitted it here before, and I'm not ashamed of it, but I never COULD get into comic books. As teh F.U. wouldn't pay for them anyway, looking at them in the drugstore racks was mostly futile, as the remarkably-upright-for-a-neanderthal, sexist-pig pharmacist or counter help would point at me, "Hey, you! You don't want those! Put those back! THOSE ARE FOR *BOYS*!!!!!"

And as ever, I promise, dear friends, that I shitteth y'all not. (I wouldn't shit YOU, Carl, you're my favorite turd!) The above is a fine example of the 1930s attitudes in the mid-to-late 1970s in that waste of EVERYTHING Parish to which I refer with utmost righteousness and conviction as "KLAN CENTRAL." Y'all shoulda seen their faces the first time that I climbed up on the monkey bars and went ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP!!! (Yeah, 'cause those rednecks just KNEW that I'd get STUCK up there and would have to bite-off a piece of Peruvian rescue climber before some big strong MAYUNN would have to RESCUE ME from HEIGHT-FREEZE, i.e., the death-grip that novice climbers clench onto a tree or whatever they've climbed because they CAN'T GET BACK DOWN.)


Anntichrist S. Coulter said...



Back to topic, at least a bit here --- what little exposure that I had to Batman, Superman, WonderWoman (pre- the live-action shows, whether primetime WW/$6M-Man/etc. or Sat. morning HIGH FUCKING ***ART*** LIKE ISIS or the inversely fucktarded "Shazam!"), AquaMan, the world's creepiest version of Donnie & Marie Osmond, and others from the DC pantheon (assuming that I'm not fucking this up and confusing Marvel characters with DC property) --- was, of course, from the "SUPER-FRIENDS!" show. Weirdest shit EVER, that big-assed warehouse-sized building, and we only ever saw ONE ROOM, the "board-room meeting area," with the then-"jumbotron"-sized two-way-com TV screen/monitor, very weirdly-proportioned "computer banks" and bleep-bloop-beep-beep-beep flashing lights and "computer" so-called "sounds," though I rarely ever heard the magnetic AMEX reels of computer tape actually spinning or replaying any code, or even being rewound.

Hey, it was 197-fuckingEIGHT by then, even hicks in the sticks like ME watched the news, read the paper,
and had SOME idea of how those giant banks of magnetic-tape-reading data-processors looked & sounded like, and what in the hell that they were FOR, and what was shown on SuperFriends as their "supercomputer" was the '70s equivalent of a modern-day solar-powered calculator.

They always got ALMOST enough information about "The bad guys," but never QUITE enough. Maybe if they'd drawn-in more than one reel-to-reel, they'd have solved that shit without even having to pull a run in their tights whilst getting dressed!

If I'd known beforehand, well, before the "entertainment 'journalism' " (can you say, Studio System hype & P.R. shillers? I knew thatcha could!) industry were told to start the promo work for the first "BATMAN," I might have tried to start either a petition campaign (before teh innernet collegiate databases were released/opened to the general public and connected to government computers all over the world, BEFORE AOL & WebTV came along and cocked it all up --- THAT is how people communicated their distaste/will to disrupt goings-on, etc., WAY the fuck before TWITTER, etc.) or an arson/molotov campaign, not to hurt anybody, obviously, but to just flat-out DESTROY the production of that flick. Again, NO HUMAN OR ANIMAL CASUALTIES, WHATSOEVER, but we coulda blowed-up them styrofoam sets REEEEALLLL GOOOOOOODDDD if we'da knowed how to get thar and where to throw 'em.

I wonder what executive gave the greenlight order to go ahead and make BATMAN with Michael dumbfuck-wif-rudimentary-hair-plugs Keaton as The Anti-Adam-West, and if his death was ruled "accidental" or simply, "unsolved"? I have a sneaking suspicion that "autoerotic asphyxiation" might have served as the set-dressing for the "crime scene" once the body was "found" and the CSI-types were set to work, finding the clues that they were meant to find.

Hey, if J. Edgar Teh Drag Queen could do it to Jack & Bobby Kennedy, MLK *AND* Marilyn Monroe, I feel sure that by the 1980s, all that was required was a phone call, and all was attended to, down to the finest detail


Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

(Last stop, everybody off!)

And no matter how much I write about that smug, smirky, thought-he-was-a-better-looking-Bill-Murray (talk about setting a LOW BAR!!!) idiotic motherfucker, STILL, STILL, *NOTHING* not a DAMNED THING comes to mind to alleviate the suffering induced by remembering teh commercials & trailers for "JACK'S FROSTY BALLS."

Well, if I WANTED to stop the pain, I'd stop thinking about Keaton and gouge-out both of my eyes, that's pretty simple. Worked so well for Oedipus, after all... But I would still have the LINGERING AFTERTASTE of KNOWING that we actually DISCUSSED an end-product of a giant crunchy jizzcicle excuse for a "flick" permanently crippled by that dissipated & rapidly-melting jizzcicle known as Michael Keaton.

And after all of this blathering, all that I can come up with is the quiet and perhaps solitary hope that pseudo-pork-pie "hats" will, once again, fade into fashion flotsam and return to the historical accents that they truly deserve to be, amongst jazz experts on scatting across keyboards or horn buttons (okay, boys, find as many pornographic anagrams/puns/jokes you can get out of that one line!) and ancient bluesmen and ballsy blues broads who can pull that shit off, like Big Mama Thornton did, time and time again, though she, like yours truly, had a biigggggggg ol' punkin'-sized head, and the little "hats" that they sell at Tar-jhay, Wally World, shopping malls, etc., wouldn't even cover the VERY CROWN of either of our craniums.

And once pork=pie hats and hipster bullshit that knows less of jazz than any "adult contemporary" station ever will, once genuine fedoras have faded back into the shadows with true blues masters, we can all rest easier, and I can hopefully finally get some fucking SLEEP tonight (before I have to be awake in five hours for more physical therapy!!), knowing that having SURVIVED Scott's cruel and inexplicably satanically-sadistic trip down unwanted-memory-lane means that we are now SAFE, IMMUNIZED (and no, Rummy,not by fucking TAMIFLU, you rat bastard!!!), at least until this time next year, when Scott's deceptively calm demeanor and seemingly-trustworthy blue eyes will lure us into yet another cruel and vicious tiger trap worthy of Shere Khan.

P.S. Scott? While I still haven't had the nerve or the proper amount of opioids to do the hooker flick, I have a new assignment for YOU and/or Mary and/or Sheri and/or Riley (I loves me some Moondoggie, you know that, but face it, HE'S TOO FUCKING *BAKED* TO TYPE!!!!), should you be brave enough to take THIS particular clusterfuck ON: One word: "ZOTZ!"

I wish that I'd seen it in the dollar-video pile somewhere, but thus far, no luck, though I *have* long had, since before you reviewed it, my own copy of a very sparse adaptation of my life story, in an obtuse, inverse manner of delivery: "THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE!" Since I'm dain-bread, please somebody remind me who linked to it most recently in one of the earlier posts, 'cause you (who?) gave me a delightful little jolt of joy when I clicky-ed teh linky and got HER, steel tray and all!!! Any joy is well-appreciated, so thank you, Masked-only-by-opiods-and-senility Man!