The Culture Bunker
by William Ham
illustration by Space Jockey
Two Thumbs Up some very uncomfortable places
The more astute among you (that is, those of you who didn’t buy this issue for the Pulitzer-worthy think-piece “What The Fuck Is That Thing on Gwen Stefani’s Forehead?”) may have noticed that I haven’t written any movie reviews this month. Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I spent a truly unconscionable amount of time at the local googolplex this summer, bombarding my electric-razor-sharp senses with every gaudy, overpriced piece of celluloid cellulite residing on the wobbling upper thighs of that puffy, sweaty homonculus called Hollywood.
I discontentedly munched my way through dozens of Brando-sized tubs of computer-generated virtual popcorn slathered with a mass-produced oleo substitute synthesized from the placenta of hooved mammals specially bred to take meetings and dial Mike Ovitz’s cell-phone number with their snouts. I willingly subjected myself to three-and-a-half hour sequels to pictures based on pieces of wadded-up paper found in John Grisham’s slacks pockets by his dry cleaner. I saw romantic comedies that technically qualify as human rights violations. I waded through projects that were still in development as of the beginning of the third reel. I saw two hundred and sixteen national monuments explode (not counting the involuntary facelift Roosevelt got on Mount Rushmore in the erotic action-comedy 1600 Penetration Avenue), seventy-five wisecracking domestic animals with an amazing aptitude for badminton, eighteen hastily-drawn, two-dimensional cartoon superheros (only one of which was Chris O’Donnell), and heard the digitally enhanced, Dolby octophonic stereo sound of human flatulence fifty-six times (although one of them may only have been the man in the seat in front of me at the matinee showing of The Flying Lesbian. He really chowed on those chocolate-covered broccoli treats during the opening credits).
And for all the man-hours squandered, every instance of egregious product placement (do you really think Zeus chain-smoked unfiltered Camels?), and every piece of state-of-the-art high-tech equipment required to keep my eyes from dilating during Speed 3: The Runaway Baggage Tram, I came away with nothing but an incurable case of impacted Goobers. (I mean, I got shards of candy lodged in my gums. Jeez, get your mind out of the gutter. There ain’t room enough there for both of us.)
The reason? Very simply, modern cinema is totally implausible and unrealistic. It’s gotten to the point that the stuff that happens to me when I leave the theater is far more intriguing and worthy of recounting. For example, the other day I was on my way home from a sneak preview of the heavily-hyped action picture Piss/Off (starring Ron Palillo as a Federal agent who, through a series of bizarre circumstances, ends up exchanging bladders with a vicious serial killer portrayed by Jackie Mason, in the role that garnered him “Nice Try” honors at Cannes), and, cognizant that I could hardly operate heavy machinery after seeing such a film, I decided to hail a cab. Luck was on my side, for not only did I manage to flag down the first taxi that passed, but it appeared to be the only one in the city that didn’t remind me of sharing a sweat lodge with Chris Farley. To compound my good fortune, the driver was not the usual refugee from an underdeveloped country whose name consisted only of consonants and ampersands, but an articulate, friendly gentleman who strongly resembled renowned character actor Barry Bostwick.
“I hope you don’t mind sharing a ride,” he said. “My dispatcher just radioed me. I’m supposed to pick up a very important fare down in the Polyvinyl Chloride District.”
“Heh, you don’t know the half of it, buddy. I’ve been on the clock for ninety-five minutes and already I’ve talked down two would-be suicides, delivered a set of fraternal triplets, and defused an unexploded union representative. Fortunately, I retire in two days. I’m getting too old for this shit. According to city ordinance, at least. Oh, I think that’s our fare.”
We pulled up and two men climbed in. “Thank God you came as quickly as you did!” the first one, a blandly-handsome everyman type, exclaimed. “I’ve been carrying this vital piece of classified information for days and I’ve got to get it to Ominous-Looking Government Headquarters in Qualico-Over-Quantico, Virginia immediately, or else Mr. Ecru and I are dead men!”
“Stop fuckin’ calling me that,” his shorter, colorfully weaselly sidekick complained. “If I’m gonna be named after a color, I want a fuckin’ primary or at least a fuckin’ secondary color, not this faggy-
“Come on, you know that shadowy, mysterious guy with the conspicuous limp that gave us this job insisted on naming us himself. Just be thankful you didn’t get tagged Mr. Burnt Sienna like me. And besides, I believe he’s already talked to you about those long strings of hyphenated words you’ve been using.”
“I’m not gonna debate with you, Burnt. I’m not gonna debate. Let’s just get to the airport, get on the plane, discuss the comparative merits of Fred Williamson and Richard Roundtree over complimentary honey-roasted peanuts, get to Virginia, deliver this world-altering information, collect the satchel of rare costume jewelry the guys involved in that botched heist at the bootleg boot-aglet warehouse left under the bridge abutment before they all betrayed each other and expired in an apocalyptic hailstorm of automatic-weapons fire, go out, shoot up, meet some hookers who are really very nice girls, fuck them, fall in love, either kill or become their pimps, pull a con on a bunch of mobsters with quirky personal habits, narrowly escape death by bizarre ritual torture performed to the tune of `Undercover Angel’ by Alan O’Day, pledge our undying love either to the hookers or to the hazy memory of some girls we went out with in high school and spurned to start our life of petty crime, get the connecting flight home and be back by twelve-thirty when Dragnet comes on.”
“Ah, can’t we do something different with our Saturday nights?”
“We could watch Sonny & Cher instead.”
“You play by your own rules, don’t you, partner? How did I ever get mixed up with a loose cannon like you?”
“Hey, we travelled the highways and byways of America in search of redemption last week, didn’t we?”
“We were looking for your long-lost father, pal.”
“And we woulda found him if you hadn’t unwittingly unleashed that centuries-dead colony of flesh-hungry guinea pigs that turned the Midwest into a war zone!”
“Will you never get over that?”
“Hey!” the cabbie warned.
“Keep it down back there. I’ve got a Mason jar full of a mutant virus in my glove box and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“So,” I asked, “what is this vital document that you’re so concerned about?”
“Well, I don’t know… everybody who knows the secret of Form #42990762-B has wound up dead… but okay. Are you familiar with the Epsilon Project?”
“Uh, no, can’t say that I am.”
“What about the Acidophilus Society?”
“Nope.”
“The Peanut Butter Conspiracy?”
“The pseudo-psychedelic band who had a minor hit with `It’s a Happening Thing’ back in ’68?”
“Right. Well, forget what you know about them. This is bigger than a second-rate San Francisco acid-rock combo. In fact, this is bigger and more horrifying than Lothar and the Hand People, the 1910 Fruitgum Company, and the Charging Purple Tyrannosaurus of Despair, Incorporated combined! What this means is…”
Suddenly, a curare dart flew in through the driver’s-side window and lodged in Mr. Burnt Sienna’s adam’s apple. The resulting thrashing caused the cab to skid off the road and into the showroom window of Mr. Zeke’s Shotgun Bridal Boutique, located at 767 West Eggs Benedict Street for all your underage backwoods wedding needs.
“Well,” Mr. Burnt Sienna choked out just before expiring, “this can’t portend well for the rest of the evening.”
There will now be a thirty-one day intermission.
Refreshments are now available in your refrigerator.
