Trash Theater


Trash Theater was a series of movie columns written by David Webb and myself for Cemetery Dance Magazine. The column had a following. We received letters, and I was told by many readers Trash Theater was the main reason they bought the magazine. If they lied I don't want to know.

David and I have been reviewing movies for one another for years. Since the late-seventies. In fact, during the late-seventies, early-eighties, there was a flood of low budget movies. Most of them, as always, were quite bad, but still there were a number of good ones. After that, the ranks got thinner, or my taste changed. I don't know. But it seemed to me they were far and in between then. Still, David and I liked to get together now and then for what we called Trash Theater. We'd invite friends, have popcorn, watch movies. Not always of the era aforemen­tioned. All kinds of movies, Dolomite to Viva Las Vegas, and we'd have a hell of a time.

As time went on this event dissolved. Raising kids. Working. A variety of things kept us from making it a regular event. But on occasion David and I still got together to talk about movies, and these talks led to us asking if we might do a column for Cemetery Dance. Rich Chizmar, the editor, agreed, and so we did. We decided to make up the personas of these two rednecks Joe and David and have them review the movies. I know, Joe Bob Briggs is famous for this, but David and I have been using that sort of approach for years, with friends, with each other, long before there was a Joe Bob Briggs. And besides, Joe Bob is his own thing and we were our own thing. And considerably less successful.

We tried to pick movies we had actually enjoyed, or that we thought were just plain dumb. Things like Plan Nine, and other Ed Wood "classics," we chose not to review, because frankly, we don't get as big a kick out of them. Viva Las Vegas, now that's a bad movie. Plan Nine is bad, but it had every reason to be. Viva Las Vegas, considering the money, the people in it, could have actually been a real movie. But, instead, it was stupid.

If you haven't seen it, trust me. It was stupid. And funny. As we will show in one of our reviews. Other movies, like Basket Case, though low-budget, are still good. And still creepy.

Anyway, we had a good time writing this, but eventually our enthusiasm petered out. Too much going on in our lives. Became too difficult to get together and do the work. Way we worked it was tedious. We'd get together and talk about a couple of movies in the fashion of the column, make a few notes. David would go home and I'd write a draft, give it to him, and he'd rewrite it. Then I'd type it up and make some changes and he'd come over for a visit and we'd go over it line by line and do a rewrite together.

Doing it this way, it took quite a while to finish a column. Eventually, too long.

But that is neither here nor there. Trash Theater is no more. Except in these columns. I only regret David and I didn't start doing this back in the seventies when we first reviewed movies for one another. We would have had a book four-hundred pages thick.

I've chosen to reprint six of our reviews, in three sets of two. That should give readers a taste of what we were doing for Cemetery Dance: A combination movie review, bullshit session, and in some cases, running short story.

Some day, Dave and I hope to collect all our columns, add a few more, and do a book. We think that would be fun. But a steady movie column again? I don't think so.

But here's a taste of what we were doing. Since the reviews speak for themselves, this intro will also serve to introduce the next two sets.

So, get in that drive-in frame of mind, or if you're too young to have experienced the drive-ins, find my article in By Bizarre Hands, "Hell Through A Windshield," and read about them, or get a fictional taste of them from my novels The Drive-In and The Drive-In 2, or read my column "A Hard on for Horror" in my collection Writer of the Purple Rage and get insight into low budget movies and why I (we) like them. Or just forget all that and kick back and enjoy Joe and Dave's Dog and Pony show, ala East Texas, the drive-in and the VCR.



The Human Tornado



Length: (Uncertain, as our copy contains trailers for the movie and we were laughing so hard at them and the movie, we couldn't keep up with the time. In one sense, this baby is much too short, and in another, phenomenally too long.)

This motherfucker stars:

Rudy Ray Moore as "Dolomite"

Lady Reed as "Queen Bee"

Jimmy Lunch as "Mr. Motion"

And Introducing, and most likely, Exiting: "Java"

Screenplay: Jerry Jones, from the character, Dolomite, created by Rudy Ray Moore

Directed: Cliff Roquemore


Winner of the Webb-Lansdale Prize for Excessive Cussing and Overuse of the Word Motherfucker. We're also very proud of our copy of the movie, as it has Spanish subtitles. It's kind of uptown to have this version, don't you think? One particular episode cheers us. In this one, Rudy Ray Moore, decked out in cliche pimp attire, sitting in the backseat of a car being pursued by redneck crackers, yells to his driver a rare sentence not containing the word motherfucker, and it goes like this: "Drive, nigger! Drive!" while below, in Spanish subtitles is written in calm diction: "Acelera, Negro." This translates close to: "Go fast, black person."

Kind of takes away a little, don't you think?

Listen up, motherfuckers. The Human Tornado, its own-self, is generally reviewed by others as an intentional parody of black exploitation films. But we here at the throbbing nerve center of Trash Theater ain't so sure that's what this really is. The word "intentional" may be rationalization. For us, it sends mixed signals. We get the feeling, though a sense of humor is involved here, that this is actually nothing more than a black exploitation movie made by true believers.

Kind of movie where the ignorant white is satisfied that blacks fit all their cliches, and certain blacks are satisfied they fit all the cliches — big dicks, sexual and physical prowess, a constant one-upmanship on whitey — and White Liberals faint while Progressive Blacks contemplate suicide, feeling stuff like this sets the black race back fifty years per viewing, and we at Trash Theater figure it's just another one of those cultural time capsules that assures us mankind, (peoplekind, for the politically correct) black, white, orange or polka dot, is basically pretty stupid.

In other words, this ain't a movie that'll play at the next Ku Klux Klan smoker, but neither can we imagine it being ran on late night TV during Black Pride Week, say sandwiched between commercials for the Negro College Fund.

This baby came on, we knew we were in trouble the minute we saw the credits. They were obviously designed by the same guy who paints those runny grocery store sale notices and banners on butcher paper. You know, you see them in the windows when you go to shop. Stuff like: GROUND BEEF, 2.59 a pound. You see these signs and banners in everything from a Mom and Pop store to Krogers, and it's got to be the same guy goes around and paints these. They all look alike. Have the same lettering and the same tempera paint.

Moments after the Title Credits, the star of stars, Rudy Ray Moore, "Dolomite," motherfuckers, appears on screen wearing a cape that is a grocery store banner, complete with wind holes. He turns his back to the audience, and painted across the banner is the announcement that he's none other than Rudy Ray Moore, his ownself, starring as Dolomite.

That's right, motherfuckers, Dolomite, quintessential Bon Vivant, socialite sophisticate, Boss Stud, Sex Machine, Peck­erwood Slammer, White Trash Masher, Super Cracker Killer, Disco Detective, Ace of Spades and Head Nigger.

Before you hoist your politically correct bullshit banner, start writing in to Cemetery Dance to talk about those awful reviewers Lansdale and Webb using the dreaded N-word, see the movie, motherfuckers. The word nigger flows freely in this one, from the mouths of black characters as a kind of left­handed endearment, and from the mouths of white trash villains as something less than endearing. (What we really love about the White Trash Villains is the blacks get their deserved licks in by making the whites ivory versions of Steppin' Fetchit and Amos and Andy, only a little less bright.)

Rudy Ray Moore is a comedian. Or claims to be. He used to make racy party records like Red Foxx, back in the early sixties. He never runs out of breath or finds a sentence in which motherfucker can't be worked into the context, and he ain't the kind of fella wastes film. The first of the movie hasn't got a damn thing to do with the story. It's Rudy Ray Moore's comedy nightclub act, interspliced, inexplicably, with a near naked Mexican-style dancer grinding her hips, vibrating her ass like a paint shaker, and lying on her back and humping her loins across the stage to bongo music. We must admit up front, we don't get this concept entirely, but it's interesting. We think it might be just the thing to spruce up George Bush's next address to the nation or that flagging political campaign. It might even be more interesting if Barbara Bush were willing to dress in this revealing costume and crab walk across the floor, humping at the ceiling, spraying her paste pearls to and fro.

Naw. Maybe we better leave that little plan alone.

Anyway, Rudy goes through his nightclub act. Calls the patrons motherfuckers, niggers, and makes fun of their being overweight and tells one black guy he's so ugly if he stuck his head out a car window while driving, his lips would beat him to death.

The audience, including the fat, ugly motherfuckers, love this. They clap and laugh, delighted in the fact that they see themselves as fat and ugly and a bunch of niggers.

Now the story starts, and we go with Dolomite to a party at his house that is a combination community upper crust hobknobbing and cocktails and charity benefit and upstairs sex shack.

Seems a local white lady has heard about Dolomite, and knows he's — as he explains in the film's trailers — "Got a dong big as King Kong," and she's got to have some of that, and will pay him for thirty minutes of drilling. This bothers Dolomite. He's got business downstairs, but he tells her to loosen up the meat, so to speak, and he'll be back to plant the tree after he gets through downstairs, and sigh, a stud's work is never done, but he's up to it, because Dolomite, motherfuckers, can do it all.

Later, after Dolomite graciously gives away his lovely Alabama home to a local boys charity, he goes upstairs to honor his paid thirty minutes, (We tell you, the man's a saint!) and no sooner is he dropping anchor in the hot mama's ocean, than low and behold and tighten your asshole sphincters, her husband shows up with friends, and the husband is an Alabama cliche cracker sheriff, and his friends are a bunch of deputies and nigger haters. Ouch!

Soon as the sheriff breaks into the room and sees his snowy white wife making a flesh sandwich with a "man of color," he flips his wig and screams for Charlie — one of the sheriff's dorks —to kill them both. Dolomite leaps clear, thank goodness, and the hot white Mama, screaming "He made me do it," collects a double barrel's worth of buckshot, and the action kicks into high gear.

Dolomite, butt naked, clothes in his hands, dick flapping like a smoked sausage in a high wind, leaps out of the house and down a startling steep embankment — so steep in fact, the film backs up and Dolomite voices over something to the effect — "You don't believe that shit, do you," and the shot is ran again, Dolomite going down the side of the embankment, burning his naked ass on the grass. A car is waiting below, and Dolomite is rescued by his friends, and they burn rubber. They are pursued by the crackers, and Dolomite, after scream­ing "Drive, nigger! Drive!," finally decides an ambush is in order. Dolomite has his driver pull over, takes out a shotgun, and lying in ambush says: "He thinks he's bad and ain't got no class. I'm gonna jam this shotgun up this motherfucker's ass."

And no sooner can you conjugate "to motherfuck," than, goddamn it, the sheriff's killed (sort of) and Dolomite and his friends are really on the lamb.

They decide to hitchhike (say what!), and end up hijacking a car driven by an exaggerated gay guy who is willing to be kidnapped and made to travel to California.

After a little on the road hijinks, Dolomite calls a lady friend in California, Queen Bee, a nightclub owner, and tells her he and his friends are on their way. "I had to off a motherfucker, and me and the boys are on the run. Can you dig it?"

Well now, that's the call we're waiting for here at Trash Theater Central.

"Hello, Trash Theater."

"Yeah, man, this is Dolomite, man. I had to off a motherfucker and me and the boys are on the run. I'm on my way over. Can you dig it?"

No, we can't dig it. Time he and the boys got here, wouldn't be nothing but the wind and a few movie posters blowing through Trash Theater Central.

Queen Bee, however, is a real friend. She don't give a rat's ass how many motherfuckers Dolomite's offed. In fact, she sees an advantage to all this, says there couldn't be a better time, the joint is jumping, and she can use a cat like Dolomite.

And not only is the joint jumping, the manager states: "I ain't seen so many niggers in here since Dolomite was here last." The joint is also full of the trashiest polyester and knit '70s disco outfits and shitty show garb you've ever seen this side of Hell's version of Las Vegas. This is the stuff the devil makes you put on in front of a four-way mirror, just so he can make fun of you, but everyone at Queen Bee's club thinks they're in the 9s, you know.

This seems the right time to mention in passing that this is where we're first treated to one of Queen Bee's wigs, obvi­ously made from the hair of the rare polyester parade float, and if this isn't enough for you, keep watching this gal's threads and hairdos. If the movie doesn't keep you interested, her garb, or for that matter, everyone's garb, will hold you. Actually, this shit will kind of stun you, unless you're one of those '70s disco fucks who thought a pimp hat the circumfer­ence of a patio umbrella, striped bell bottoms, a plaid Nehru jacket and a Peace medallion only a little larger than a Mag wheel were the height of fashion. (Well, okay, we're pushing the truth a little, but this is some dazzling stuff.)

But Dolomite is plagued by trouble. It follows him like a dog no matter where he goes. He doesn't want it. He doesn't ask for it. But goddamn it, motherfuckers, the man can't get no rest. Trouble just keeps showing up. It won't leave our man alone.

A rival club, owned by one Cavaletti, an evil white guy, sends some of his torpedoes over to make trouble for Queen Bee's place. It's such bad trouble, Queen Bee has to close up. And all this happens before Dolomite arrives.

Dolomite, finding the joint locked up tight as a nun's genitals, sets out to find Hurricane Annie. This process sub­jects us to Dolomite's seriously bad night club act again, and some of his clever maneuvering through the social night club maze in his street smart ways, until he finds Hurricane Annie and gets the fact he needs. That fact being: Queen Bee has got her motherfucking ass in a motherfucking crack.

Hurricane Annie drives Dolomite and his boys to Cavaletti's, explaining to Dolomite that "Cavaletti gets rich off niggers and dumb honkeys and I bet Queenie and her girls are in there."

At this point, we kind of forget who was where. Somehow we have another bad night club act, and we discover Queen Bee intact, bad hat and bad wig complete, and that her main girl, "Java," who we suppose is like her major whore or something — it's nebulous — has been kidnapped, motherfuck­ers, and put in a death trap while wearing only her underwear.

The plot becomes complex at this point, actually down right confusing, so let's simplify matters. Okay, Dolomite goes to Cavaletti's house and flashes a velvet painting of a couple fucking. Mrs. Cavaletti, aroused to a fever pitch — in other words she is on the verge of leaking honey dew down her leg — just has to have a piece of Dolomite's flesh pickle.

It's a tough job, but someone has to do it. So, Dolomite is forced to use his patent method of interrogation. He fucks her. He fucks her so hard the house literally falls down around them, as if in an earthquake, and Mrs. Cavaletti, having had the earth move for her, as well as a few other celestial bodies, shrieks in great orgasmic release the location of Queen Bee and her girls.

Now, check out Queen Bee's new hat.

Back to action. Off clump Queen Bee and her hive of whores to Cavaletti's to attack. Of course, everyone knows karate, and of course, the grand master of the grand masters is Dolomite, who shreds everyone without losing the jaunty angle of his pimp hat, and...

Ah, fuck it. Everybody gets their ass whipped that isn't with Dolomite and Cavaletti gets his balls gobbled off by rats.

And that's The Human Tornado, motherfuckers. Parody, or just dumb, or both? You be the judge. Can you dig it?

We were going to do Dolomite, the sequel to Human Tornado, but we've run out of space, so maybe next time. We also promised a comment or two on the lady who shoves sweet taters up her ass, but that has to wait, too.

So next, time, motherfuckers. Can you dig it?





"Dolemite is my name, an' fuckin' up motherfuckers is my game!" (Rudy Ray Moore, as that cool, suave, motherfucker his ownself, Dolemite.)


Directed: That Bad D'urville Martin

Screenplay: Jerry Jones

From an adaptation by R. R. Moore

Starring:  Rudy Ray Moore as Dolerziite

That Bad D'urville Martin as Willie Green

Lady Reed as Queen Bee

Jerry Jones as Blakely


Yes sir, one Dolemite movie wasn't enough. They had to make several. Actually, four, if you count Disco Godfather and Avenging Disco Godfather**, but the actual character of Do­lemite really didn't jell until Dolemite and The Human Tor­nado. In fact, we don't remember if he was called Dolemite in those pictures or not, but we don't think so.

Only thing notable about the Disco Godfather is a se­quence where a negro on drugs has a nightmare involving being possessed by a demon in a B-ball game he can't control. He can't shoot. He can't dribble. But the less said about that, the better.

On to Dolemite.

No, now, wait a minute. A pause. We suppose, before we go any farther, we'll have to take one of our noted asides, and much as we hate to admit it, say in our ever gracious and modest manner — we fucked up.

As Dolemite would say, "Can you dig it?"

You see, Human Tornado isn't the first Dolemite movie, as we stated in our previous column. If you don't count the Disco Godfather movies, which are really a different thing, you got to consider Dolemite as the first, and The Human Tornado as the second.

This was brought to our attention by our ever vigilant readers, Greg Nichol and David Schow, who, like us, have nothing else better to do.

We want to offer our thanks for their correction, and add that we really don't give a shit which came first. You can't tell by watching them. They're both wonderful shit, but they're shit, nonetheless, and the order of the appearance is unneces­sary, and we really don't appreciate being embarrassed like this, so thanks, and we welcome all mail, all your personal opinions, but if you catch us in a mistake, keep it to yourself, okay?

Can you dig it?

Moving right along.

Okay, Dolemite. You got a lot of the same stuff here as The Human Tornado, which we slightly prefer. Frankly, why try and decide over a couple of classics. This one, like Human Tornado, has plenty of motherfucking cussin' and shootin' and rappin' and signifying. Our copy, since we're in with the elite and have special privileges and an enormous staff...

Whoa! We're gonna do it again. Another aside. But we thought we ought to stop right here in mid-thought, and try and tell you a little about our headquarters and staff. We wish you were here, wish you could hear the typewriters clattering in the background, the spin of video cassette reels, the popping of popcorn on our popcorn machine from a now defunct drive-in theater, the teaming in and out of our often nude staff, toting in cassettes and snacks, our special crew, pouring Coke syrup, melted candy bars, and pissing on the floor of our office bathroom beneath the pasty, yellow glow of a 60-Watt bug light, so, like all drive-in theater restrooms, it'll suck at your shoes like a bad jailhouse blow job.

We wish you were here, it would bring tears to your eyes, the way these people work.

Can you dig it?

Now, where were we?

Oh, our special edition of Dolemite.

Ours has the movie trailers for Dolemite and Human Tornado, and one of our favorite things on the trailer is where, as not to offend sensitive ears, strategically placed beeps have been added to censor out certain words in the English lan­guage. It goes something like this: "gonna jam this beep motherfucking shotgun up his beep motherfucking beep ass!"

Now, we ask you, what was the offensive word obliterated from the trailer?

Also on the trailer is this, a voiceover narration by our hero, Dolemite: "I'm the man that killed Monday, whupped Tuesday, put Wednesday in the hospital, called Thursday to tell Friday not to bury Saturday on Sunday. I'm the one that had the elephants roosting in trees and all the ants wearing BVDs. From the first to the last I give 'em a blast so fast that they're life is past, before their ass has even hit the grass. See me uptown, crowned and renowned! Delayed, relayed, mislaid and parlayed. Hatched, matched, snatched and scratched. Whacked, jacked, smacked and cracked. Bootblacked, blackjacked, race tracked and flapjacked. And still coming back! If you crave satisfaction, this is the place to find that action. Coming to a theater as its next attraction, it's a picture that will put you in traction."

Hey, we got to say it.

Fuck Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, and Carl Sandburg.

Give us Dolemite.

Along with a translator.

As for the movie, well, this one just proves that behind every successful man, there's a woman. Certainly, Queen Bee has been there for Dolemite.

This one begins in prison with Dolemite walking into the warden's office, since he's been in a spot of trouble and is serving time. Now, hold on. Dolemite was set up, folks. He didn't actually do the rap he's in for: narcotics and possession of stolen goods. No sir, he was set up by some cracker cop motherfuckers, as you might expect.

Anyway, Dolemite swaggers into the office, and there sits Queen Bee with the warden. She's been trying feverishly to convince the warden that Dolemite was framed, and now they believe her, because the plot has to get underway.

Fact is, not only do they believe her, they want to make Dolemite a special agent so they can catch those bad cracker cops.

Only four people other than Dolemite know about this plan. The warden, Mama Queen Bee (just Queen Bee to her friends), the Governor of California (Ronald Reagan, maybe? Shit, if he was working with Dolemite, our estimation of him goes up a notch. Maybe two.), and an unidentified FBI agent.

Dolemite is sent out into the world to do his deed as a special agent, and is met at the prison gates by a Cadillac limo full of whores. And the man isn't going to be out there brushing elbows with regular folks dressed like a field hand neither. They've brought him his signature pimp suit and hat.

But let us tell you, because, brethren and sistren, we're here to do just that, the evil doers of the world keep an eye out for folks like Roy Rogers and Dolemite. Because they know when heroes like that are on the prowl, evil doers are going to have to take a holiday. Either that, or heaven forbid, someone is going to have to whack Dolemite.

Hey, we ask you. You want that job? You want to fuck with Dolemite?

Yeah, that's what we thought. But not everyone is as bright as our readers. Soon as the Cadillac starts to roll, it's followed by some ne're do wells. Henchmen of Dolemite's arch enemy, Bad Willie Green.

Dolemite isn't having this shit. He sets up an ambush Dan Quayle would have seen coming, and whacks about four people. The last of which is a white boy. Dolemite makes a show of the white boy's dancing skills by shooting at his feet. "This motherfucker's got rhythm," says Dolemite. Then he drills the bastard in the belly. Good for him. You see enough bad dancing on the Grand Ole Opry.

The white boy's final cry for help is answered by a whore's straight razor across his throat.

What a way to start your first day out of prison. And then it gets worse. Dolemite discovers his arch enemy, Bad Willie Green, has taken over his night club, The Total Experience, which had been left to Queen Bee to take care of.

Dolemite asks: "Who's taking care of the club now?"

Queen Bee: "We don't have the club no more."

Dolemite: "That club was my pride and joy and you give it up!"

Queen Bee (cocking her wig at a self righteous angle): "I didn't give away shit! We lost it. Me and these girls had to sell pussy on the goddamn corner, trying to save your black ass. We almost lost the house."

And what a nice house it is, too.

Dolemite has purpose now. He wants that shitty, fake fur, strobe lit night club back, and he wants it now. He tilts his pimp hat into a Get To Humping position, sets out to trash Bad Willie Green, get his club back and find out who shot his nephew in a drive-by.

Yeah, there's a dead nephew, too.

Queen Bee has had all the whores trained to be karate experts. So they actually are a "Fuckin' commando team." They use their skills to protect business as Queen Bee de­scribes how a trick tried to walk without paying his hundred dollar pussy fee.

Thick: "I am Joe Blow The Lover Man! You should be paying me, bitch! Here's two dollars. Git some douche powder and keep it clean for me next time."

Queen Bee explains to Dolemite what happened next: "He's in the hospital yet with his ass in a sling."

It's pithy dialogue like this that just keeps a viewer coming back for more.

On the other hand, pithy dialogue aside, one has to won­der three things. These whores are so bad, why ain't they still running the club? Or why ain't they getting it back? And lastly, why is Dolemite a special agent? Was he assigned this position so he could reclaim his disco club and give free entertainment to the law enforcement community?

Dolemite hits the streets looking for "The Creeper" — not the one played by Rhondo Hatton — also known as "The Ham­burger Pimp." Queen Bee thinks The Hamburger Pimp might know who popped a cap on Dolemite's nephew, but ole Ham­burger, once found, is so strung out on heroin and wine, he doesn't know his dick from a walking stick.

Dolemite plies The Hamburger Pimp with an offer of money for heroin, and just when the Hamburger Pimp is about to spill the beans, Bad Willie Green's people blow him away.

Queen Bee's wigs still look good. Probably having been dragged beneath a car to reach that apex of styling that's her trademark.

Dolemite has changed suits at least six times, as well as matching sombreros. They all look sharp.

Now, since this isn't your usual talking heads picture, or just another dumb action flick, the plot requires some real consideration. (And if you figure it out, please drop us a line. Once again, that's in care of Trash Theater at Cemetery Dance Magazine. Our non-human companion, Gort, will stop by there once a month to pick up our mail, provided his driver's license hasn't been revoked again.)

We return you now, to Dolemite.

So, since there's more film time needed than there is script, Dolemite gets framed again. He goes to jail. His bail is paid by a beautiful woman. She picks him up in front of the pokey in a red 'Vette and drives him right to her bedroom where she receives her reward weenie.

Okay, drop the lovely lady in the 'Vette out of the picture. She's served her purpose.

A grease ball, white politician shows up in the plot, be­cause more time is needed, and he's on Willie Green's payroll, and . . .

Well, in our classic tradition of summing up, as with The Human Tornado, let us make a similar attempt here.

The shit hits the fan and everybody gets a little on them. Dolemite gets his disco club back and the movie wraps at the Grand Re-Opening of The Total Experience. Queen Bee is doing the announcing, and Dolemite has on yet another suit from Hell's Formal Rental, and we CUT*** to the fat-assed, grease ball, white politician. We get a glimpse of him running around in his house, naked, except for his thick and thin socks (God, we hate those type of socks), and by this time the plot is as mixed up as pig slop, and characters pop in and out like turds bobbing in a septic tank.

And you know what happens next?

Well, the bad cops, who you've probably forgotten, get nailed by the FBI agent (forgot him, too, didn't you?) and there's a nasty fight and Bad Willie Green gets it, because Dolemite is mad as hell and he ain't gonna take it no more. He rips out Willie Green's heart with his bare hands! There you have it. The hog's on ice, and this picture show is all through.

Let's close out with a quote from that Ace Motherfucker himself, Dolemite. Not because it has anything to do with anything, but because it's in the Dolemite tradition. Mis­placed and a little confused.

"You rat-soup eatin', honkey motherfucker."

Can you dig it?

Suggested snacks while viewing Dolemite. Fatty, barbe­cued pork ribs and a box dinner from Church's Fried Chicken containing two wings, a drum stick and a jalapeno pepper.


Well, we've run out of space again, and still no comments about the lady who sticks canned yams up her ass. We're beginning to think we really don't care. And once we make our comments, it'll only be a few sentences anyway. But hey, we've whetted your appetite, so some comment is forthcoming, even if Gort has to make it.

Speaking of Gort. He's left his position at the video screen, and has just taken a rather large crap in the coffee maker, which is our signal to break for lunch. So, until next time we open up the vaults of Trash Theater and figure out what the hell we're going to review, we'll be talkin' to you.





* Last column, Dolemite was misspelled. This was Lansdale's fault. He can't spell.


** Actually, we've never seen Avenging Disco Godfather, but we're lumping it in because it sounds completist. Anyone out there has a copy they don't want back, send it to us care of Trash Theater Cemetery Dance Magazine, and we'll review it. This goes for other movies as well, if we find enough items to gamer our interest, or if money is attached.


*** This is a movie term. It means like when you're doing this scene thing with actors, that you decide to go somewhere else for a while, and you CUT to that place, meaning you show what's going on there, and then, later, you can, if you want to — well, you can't, but the director can — CUT back to the original scene, or somewhere else. Okay?

Shit, now we need to explain director and scene.

Hey, trust us. It's just movie talk.

Can you dig?





All you motherfuckers motor your booty back this way Thursday, October 23, for another attraction that will put you in traction.


"Trash Theater, Part 1" originally appeared in Cemetery Dance Magazine. It later appeared in A Fist Full of Stories [and Articles], a collection published by CD Publications. "Trash Theater, Part 1" 1992 Joe R. Lansdale and David E. Webb. All Rights Reserved.