Category So Terrible It’s Amazing

One of these days, Alice.

16 Comments read Movies, Reviews, So Terrible It's Amazing

Everyone who stayed home on Friday to watch the mid-season finale of Battlestar Galactica, I envypity you. Because WE watched ‘Nude on the Moon’, a movie where the title succinctly describes the plot. That is, if ‘Nude on the Moon’ HAD a plot. When I see movies this bad, I expect to see two robots and a cheeky lad silhouetted in the lower right-hand corner of the screen.

It’s about 10 minutes of two men doing ‘science’ to get themselves to the moon, which mostly involves random acts of chemistry, 2 minutes of the secretary pining for one of the uninterested scientists, 8 minutes of the most hilarious spacesuits ever, and 50 minutes of topless ladies cavorting in a manner that indicates that ‘Developmentally Disabled Nudes on the Moon’ might have been a more apt title.

Who knew that all it took to go to the moon was mixing a couple of chemicals together while staring pensively and muttering that you’re not interested in a family? If that’s true, I should’ve rocketed off to the moon at some point during 10th grade chemistry. Screw stealing dad’s Playboys, now adventurous pre-teens can use their ‘Lil Rascal Chemistry Kit’ to go to the moon!

So, the moon is full of topless babes wearing bikini bottoms that display ample amounts of coinslot (who also don’t talk, and therefore can’t talk back), and speedo-wearing dudes who are so hairy it looks like they might be wearing cashmere sweaters, plus two douchebags in the aforementioned hilarious spacesuits.  Also, the moon has a blue sky with plenty of atmosphere. Also, plants, trees, and plenty of water. Shockingly, the moon’s surface looks just like Florida!

Once our intrepid chemists arrive on the moon, they set out to explore, finding that the moon is full of gold (which they can’t take back, owing to the weight). The gold revelation, however, is completely forgotten once they see boobies, and apparently, so is the dialogue. For the period of nearly 40 minutes that they’re wandering around on the moon, there are maybe six lines of dialogue, consisting of “Hey look at that one” and then ten minutes of dialogue-free booby shots…then another three second shot of one of them saying “Get a picture of that one!” and then another ten silent minutes.

During his time on the moon, Our Hero falls in love with the leader of the Boob Squad, who looks exactly like his pining secretary, minus the giant black mole, complete with the world’s scariest eyebrows, but has to leave her when the fire extinguisher strapped to his back runs out of ‘oxygen’. When he gets back to Earth, he pictures his secretary naked and realizes that he could love her, after all.

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Here’s what the Mystery Science Theater guys might have had to say about it:

Oh yeah. Like when a clown dies.

15 Comments read Attractions, Everything is Terrible, So Terrible It's Amazing

On Sunday there was a big sales event going on at the Tacoma Dome. Something about the radio ads indicated to me that I would really be missing out if I didn’t attend–and not because I believed that there was something there that I desperately needed to own, but rather, the potential for hilarity was extremely high.

These types of events, much like roadside attractions, are irresistable to me. I’m drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Like a shark to a drop of blood. Like a bee to the only person in a group who is intensely allergic to beestings. Like a cliche to a Mellzah blog post.

And I was not disappointed. Friends, it was like being in Tijuana, only with MORE trashy white people. Oh, Tacoma, how I love your aroma! The mariachi music was there. The vendors hustling you to buy leather jackets were there. The ‘designer’ handbags and sunglasses were there. If you didn’t go, and you’ve ever wanted to buy some ‘Dolce & Banana’ you missed out. Furthermore, if you’ve ever felt the need to own a t-shirt with Tupac silkscreened on it, with rhinestone accents bedazzled onto the eyes, teeth, and bling, you TOTALLY missed out.

I spent the majority of my time walking around, biting back giggles. The Scarface ‘framed art’ set me off, however, and I was very nearly temped to buy a piece of Very Serious Art depicting Jesus with the Biggest Crown of Thorns Ever, tattoos, and a river of blood to hang over my bed. However, a clearer head prevailed as I reasoned that at this stage, I cannot afford to scare away any potential suitors who may not understand my love of camp. Now, I don’t really care what gentlemen prefer, but terrifying them away from my bed is certainly not the road to happiness.

And let me make it clear, if it isn’t already: I love camp. The tragically ludicrous, the ludicrously tragic. The Jesus TV trays and inflatable furniture. There is a gene in me that makes me love John Waters with a deep and sick sort of love. It’s the part of me that makes me giggle when I watch Uwe Boll movies. The part that makes me think you can never have too many t-shirts with witty/offensive slogans on them.

It’s exactly that part of me that made me leave the Tacoma Dome with a pair of shoes with wheels in the heels. I’ve never been more pleased to have child-size feet than I was yesterday. The fact that I will eventually crack my head open while wearing them does not concern me. What I have determined so far is that either my balance is really, really substandard, or I am doing this wrong. It’s hard to practice in the apartment, with the approximately 8 square feet of linoleum in my kitchen. It’s even harder to practice outside, with the mocking laughter of children only a faceplant away and the uneven ground to boot. Nevertheless, I am determined to glide around on my wheeled shoes if it kills me. And it may. To that effect, I went to the WinCo yesterday to observe the little rugmonkeys in their natural environment. It appears that the trick is to have one foot well out in front of the other–I’ll have to give it a shot on the warehouse floor just as soon as the boss leaves. Because yes, I wore them to work.

There’s part of me that really would like to dress nicely–to look sharp and be perceived as an adult when I leave the house, for my apartment to look sleek and modern and clutter-free. This part of me is at war with my love of kitsch and crap. How will I ever reconcile the two? As long as I own shoes with wheels in the heels, I think the kitschy crap side of me is winning.

Tonight I go to Flying Lab Software to do a usability test of Pirates of the Burning Sea AND hang out with fraxl and gehn. That’s pretty damn good for a Monday!