As soon as you start writing in the newspaper about people you know,
you’re suddenly in deep dog doo-doo. Two weeks ago I revealed publicly, for the first time, that Ugly-on-a-Stick was pregnant, and I haven’t had a good night’s rest since then.
Two in the morning, I get phone calls. “Joe Bob, I want you to know that I am not the daddy of that ugly little fetus, and if you say I’m the father, I’ll sue you. In fact, if you just think I’m the father, I’ll sue you. In fact, if you’re thinking right now to yourself, ‘Maybe this guy’s the father,’ then I’ll sue your hiney from here to Nairobi, Kenya.”
And then I’ll explain to em how it doesn’t matter who the daddy is, because Ugly-on-a-Stick doesn’t care who it is, and even if she did care, they have these Genetic DNA Magic Mucus test where they scrape some drool off the baby and they can tell exactly who spermatized the baby.
But that doesn’t satisfy em.
“I’ll pay any amount of money for the child’s support–baby facelift, whatever it might need–but I do not want anything in the paper about it.”
At first, I though they were all embarrassed at the idea of having a baby out of wedlock, then it hit me what it was: these men had all had actual sex with Ugly-on-a-Stick. Excuse me for a moment:
All right, I can continue now.
“It is a pretty disgusting idea,” Ugly-on-a-Stick said when I told her about the phone calls. “I sure wouldn’t wanna have sex with me. And, actually, that’s one of the best things about being me. It would be impossible for me to ever have sex with anything that ugly.”
“Chloris,” I said . . .
“Call me Ugly, Joe Bob.”
“Ugly, I’ve noticed you’re putting on a few ounces around the ribs there. Might be time to go in and get a . . .”
Fifteen minutes later, after I got really disgustingly sick from the thought of it, I finished the sentence.
” . . . a gynecology check-up.”
“I hope we can find a boy doctor this time.”
“You know better than that, Ug. All the male doctors refuse to examine you. There’s that one that worked in a Bolivian war zone, but he’s 94 now and I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“He was soooo sexy.”
“Listen, Ug, I think you’re gonna need one of those amnio-alphabet baby-scan radar videos. The deals where they take a picture of your baby while it’s still inside. That way they can tell whether it’s a normal baby or, well, you know.”
“You mean they’re still worried about a baby so ugly that he’ll kill me?”
“It’s not so much the ugliness that’ll kill you. It’s the idea of a normal eight-pound baby in your 42-pound mother’s body. If you’re lucky, maybe the baby will be, like, three ounces. Then you’ll be very safe. Otherwise, Ugly-on-a-Stick is gonna look like Soap-on-a-Rope. It’d also be a surefire way to tell whether you’re actually pregnant or whether this is what you call your hysterical pregnancy.”
“What’s a hysterical pregnancy?”
“That’s when you have sex with one of the Gonzalez brothers and you start thinking about what would happen if you were to give birth, and you get real hysterical.”
“It’s probly not that,” said Ugly.
“Cause I’m uglier than all the Gonzalez brothers.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“They’re the ones that’d get hysterical.”
“They already have.”
“Let’s make a video of my amnio-alphabet,” Ugly told me. “I might want to release it in the theaters.”
“Okay, but Jack Valenti isn’t gonna like it.”
Speaking of creatures almost as grotesque as Ugly-on-a-Stick, “Puppet Master” is the first zombie-marionette movie, following in the footsteps of “Child’s Play,” last year’s Drive-In Academy Award winner about Chucky the demon-possessed doll. The idea here is that William “Icky” Hickey, the actor you hire when you want people to say “Ooooooh, he’s so oooooooold,” learns how to do Egyptian voodoo on some puppets and make them come alive. But then the Mafia comes to waste him and he has to hole em up in the wall of a hotel so nobody will find em after he’s dead.
Fifty years later and–whoops!–a crazed psychic finds the puppets and discovers the Egyptian voodoo secret and kills himself so he can come back as a zombie. This is what distinguishes “Puppet Master” from your run-of-the-mill zombie flick. Most zombie movies, people are trying to explode the heads of the zombies. This one, everybody comes to the hotel to study the zombies, like scientists. There’s a whole pack of New Age channel-changers checking in, hoping they’ll find out how to jump-start old pieces of furniture, turn it into zombie material. But meanwhile, the puppets are starting to turn mean, specially this one that looks like a pinhead bodybuilder with arms like Swift’s Premium hamhocks. The best thing about the Puppet Fu that’s about to befall every visitor to the hotel is that David Schmoeller, the drive-in director who also made “The Seduction” and “Crawlspace,” has created a special Zombie Puppet Cam that lets you see all the people die at Puppet Level! You see the beauty here? It’s one thing to say, “I wonder what it would look like if a puppet with a dentist’s drill in his head ran straight at your brain and just drilled his way right through.” But it’s another, entirely different thing when you say “What would the same thing look like if you were eight inches high and so all you could see was this enormous blood-spurting brain?”
Yeah, it’s that sick–one of the best of 89.
One breasts. Five dead bodies. Brain splattering. Head drilling. Leg drilling. Close-up finger hacking. Green blood-spitting. Blood-sucking stomach leeches. Puppet rassling. Zombie maid. Zombie dog. Extremely kinky sex. Heads roll. Fingers roll. Leech Fu (you wouldn’t believe it). Drive-In Academy Award nomination for Irene Miracle, as the white witch-lady fortune-teller, for saying “You are in great danger–do not go near the fireplace” and, to the grieving widow, “Your husband was a despicable greedy bastard”; Robin Frates, as the widow, for saying “Who are you people?”; Paul LeMat, as the sensitive Alex, for saying “I had this dream and I came here to make sure it didn’t come true”; Jimmie F. Skaggs, as the psychic zombie, for saying “I’m tired of experimenting with silly puppets” right before five puppets tear him limb from limb; and David Schmoeller, for the Puppet Cam.
Joe Bob says check it out.