Now allow me to let you in on a secret, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. I am a sick gay fuck. There. This has been going on for the better part of my thirty something years, and it's hardly surprising when I consider my interests. It's in the criminal books I read, and the malicious thoughts I entertain. It's in the web pages I have bookmarked, and the dirty finger I throw with my eyes. It's in the things I imagine, which includes the slow roasting way with which someone I hate dies, and the poisonous indulgences I maintain. That includes this blog. It's in everything I do in secret, and, most especially, the kind of movies I watch.
Rest assured, my Dearly Beloved, that I am still a good little Christian homosexual.
I. I. I. Shit, I hate talking about myself, and I'd far rather drown than to keep the verbal diarrhea exploding on the subject. I do have a point, Dearly Beloved. We have decided to do you service on this lovely Halloween evening and suggest crap that will hopefully scar you for life. I pray that you are either six years old or incredibly impressionable, since I am aiming for some sort of light trauma with this list. And because we are sick gay fucks, we claim some sort of authority, or at least the intestinal fortitude with which to sit through each of these troublesome things.
I said "things." I know. These things are not listed in any particular order.
If it's not the shit-eating that kills you, then it could be the pedal infanticide. If that doesn't get you, then it could be the barbed wire penetration. If that doesn't get you, then it could be the visual smell of shit stained lips bound with a stapler. If that doesn't get you, then I'd like to get your autographed picture, please, and some of your personal effects, if you don't mind. I will make you a goddamned altar, God.
It's a sad film about this lonely farmer who's gone mental, Real mental, and it's not just the pig fucking that gives him away. It's a black and white piece of depravity that won't bore you with suggestive dialogue. Nobody talks in this piece of shit. Which is just as well since it's set in this farm owned by this pig fucking farmer. Would you listen to a pig fucking farmer talk? No? What about the raped pig? Would you listen to it if it talked? Really? I thought so.
This love story could be worlds of super fun if he were alive while she was raping him. The title lets us in on the lurid proceedings of corpse-fucking, but the piece of shit director, bravo you, who did this crap went overboard and gave me a mental smell of what I'm watching. And I'm telling you now, Dearly Beloved, the words "infected wormy cheese" do not come close.
Whoever thought that necrophilia was fun? Nobody, that's who.
Oh dear. Killer. One hundred and ten minutes. One twenty-second scene of sheer infernal sick. This crap is not meant for parents because there are images you will not un-see and sounds that you will not un-hear. I am giving you this warning with the finality of a heart attack, Dearly Beloved, because I truly care. Haha. Meanwhile, on a serious note, I am still hearing that newborn's tortured wailing as I'm writing this. You know a movie fucked you up real bad when it plays a terrible memory on cue.
It's a frightening fiesta of libertine excesses that caters to the visually excitable. We are treated to naked, pubescent boys and girls, all beautiful in their thick flowing manes and skin so smooth that it's sinful. It takes place in this picturesque Italian manor, hidden from the curious eyes of anyone within fifty or so miles. It's either mildly pornographic or wildly pedophilic, and that depends on how you look at it.
Visual, visual, visual. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye, which is, when you think about, the long and short of this film adaptation. Is it wicked ocular trauma, then? Not even close. Is "pedophilic" even a word? Who gives a shit.
My heart is torn between a list of ten things or an aneurysm. Meanwhile, anything that's 70 proof, no chaser, no ice, and a deputation of equally sick friends will make watching these troublesome things tolerable. Go for it. Have fun, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts.