The Anal Birth of Bert (1980something)

Check out this picture -

Hard to tell what's going on, right? That's from a gay porn loop that's come to be known as The Anal Birth of Bert. Porn loops were short movies, usually recorded on 8mm cameras without sound, that would be played in adult theatres and jerkoff booths. When home video came around, and porno quantitatively exploded like a volcano of babysnot from Peter North's dickhole, the old-school porn loops only survived the transition by a few crafty entrepeneurs taping them by pointing their cameras at the screen. Let's face it, noone was gonna put forth the cash to give these dirty stag shorts a nice crisp remaster. In a sense, VHS copies of 8mm porn loops are like the birth of cam rips. Although this process allowed such pornographic goodies to remain existent, it left them somewhat incomprehensible, as seen in the above pic.

This bit of historical trivia might be massively educational and informative, but it won't help at all if you're attempting to derive a little undercarriage enjoyment from these vintage artifacts. As I see it, there's 2 available options if you want to knock one out to The Anal Birth of Bert. You could use your imagination. Or you could rely on the imagination of a depraved pervert. That's where I come in. Just call me Plan B. Lock your doors, switch off your phone and keep the Kleenex on standby, because things are about to get sexy as fuck...

 The movie opens on a portly moustachioed bloke, chained up and being anally serviced by a rather slight fellow in a biker jacket. Straight into the action. No character development. We're not shown who's cleaning whose pool and dammit we don't need to know. Because pool-cleaning ain't nowhere near sexy enough for us right now. What we need is blurry, orangey closeups of what I think is a dildo going into an anus. Hotdamn, that's fuckin' sexy.

But then the fuzzy blob on the left of the screen removes the dildo and replaces it with his fist. And why wouldn't he? Nothing increases the delicate sensuality of an anus quite like stretching it out to 17 times its intended width. This is actually a scientific fact and I can prove it with a quick association experiment -

Someone is about to take a dump on your chest. Which would you prefer: A. a thick solid pooploaf; or B. a muddy liquid spray of diarrhoea? Without a doubt, you chose A. The reason for this is that, while diarrhoea tends to squirt through a puckered hole, a healthy, sizeable mud muffin will enlarge the sphincter and give the turd tunnel muscles a vigorous workout. Subconsciously, you are sexually attracted to widened anuses. Unless you chose option B, in which case you're just a gross weirdo.

Anywayz, the fag's faeces factory gets fisted and everyone has a good time. That's as you would expect. I mean, nothing can really go wrong with a hand being rammed up an anus, right? Well, except for this -

 Fortunately that doesn't happen here. Quite the opposite actually, a hand ain't enough. When is it ever, amirite? The skinny dude decides to shove his foot up the other guy's shitter, whilst smearing his foot with a thick white paste that looks like cream cheese. Myself, I tend to put cream cheese on smoked salmon sandwiches, rather than use it as lube for a vigorous footfuck session, but hey, that's just a personal preference of mine. Each to their own. Needless to say, the rectal stretching is adequate this time, as observed by all the urgent moaning and pained screams. Rest assured though, our footfucker stops short of putting the heel in. That would just be weird and kinky, and if there's one thing that a tied-up size queen with a lubricated foot in his arsehole won't put up with, it's weird, kinky stuff. Yeah.

Cut to a new scene and the inhumanly elastic anus is being attended to by a dude in a lab coat, while a surrounding group of leather boys yell, "PUSH! PUSH!". Then we get the rather unique sight of a screaming man pushing a plush toy of Bert out of his manpussy.  That's right, Bert.

 The closing shot is of our protagonist hugging his newborn to his chest and crying; the 10th-gen VHS quality picture rendering everything as abstract blobs of pink undulating and bleeding into each other as the muffled overdriven soundtrack roars like Satan getting a prostate exam. This is no longer a movie and more like a nightmare ripped straight from a madman's cranium. A sexy, sexy nightmare.

I would go into more detail about the finale and sexify it up a bit, but the sexual appeal of shitting out muppets is, shall we say, rather limited. I imagine anyone who's really into anally excreting childrens TV characters has a social life far too active to waste time reading some silly blog. That's not to imply that making it this far through a jokey gay porn review on the internet means you don't have any friends. I'm sure you have a booming social life. Just not quite Bert-shitting levels of booming. Hey, I calls 'em as I see 'em.

Some may consider this to be a simple depraved gay porn loop. In fact, almost everyone will see it as such. But I like to think that what we're seeing is the birth of the real Bert, which thus makes this a prequel to Sesame Street. In many ways, this makes sense. Hear me out on this.

 It's been admitted that Bert and Ernie are a gay couple, but more specifically and what's gone unacknowledged by the Henson company, is that they have a sub-dom relationship. The Anal Birth of Bert gives us some background information and enriches their characters. The homosexual "mother" of Bert is a submissive. I don't know this for certain, but I'm making an educated guess, because anyone who takes a fist in their ass and it's still not enough is usually a sub. Common sense, really. Hence, Bert grows up calling the shots in the household and develops into a natural dom. He'd give the orders, stamp his feet and always end up getting his own way, which is why he's so bossy to Ernie. And Ernie always putting up with grumpy-bum Bert suggests that he's clearly a sub, just like Bert's dad. See, there's even Freudian shit in there.

 The 2 of them bicker onscreen constantly, to the point where it's hard to not see it as a form of foreplay. All that tension between them could never dissipate on its own; it'd need to explode in a sexual frenzy. This is just speculation on my part, but I always figured that as soon as the camera's were off, Bert would yell at everyone to get out of his house, then yank down Ernie's blue-and-white pyjama bottoms, jam the rubber ducky in his mouth and horsewhip his bum until the welts had turned the orange cheeks red, while Ernie resisted in that totally-wanting-it way.

Then Bert would drag Ernie to his knees and unleash a stream of hot piss in his face saying "Take it! Gargle that piss, you fuckin' orange-faced degenerate or I'll let Cookie Monster munch on your balls again!". Ernie would gulp down a mouthful and say "Oh no, please not Cookie Monster on my balls again!", but you know his protests would be fake cause last time Cookie Monster was om-nom-nomming on them sperm-filled globes, Ernie was all like "Yeah! Bite my fuckin' nuts, you savage! Crush them between your powerful jaws! Make it so I'll never cum again! No more creaming for this fag!" and then he jetted a massive load of puppet spunk all over Cookie's googly eyes and blue facial fur.

 Once Bert's bladder has been fully emptied, he'd viciously apply clamps to Ernie's nipples, then handcuff him face-first to a massive crucifix, warm piss still dripping from Ernie's chin. Parting Ernie's orange buttcheeks, Bert would spit a loogie into his hand and wipe it on in the awaiting anus, before ramming his rigid muppet cock in up to the hilt.

"Oh boy, Bert! Please don't mercilessly ream my mangina! I can't take it!", Ernie would plead, but Bert would ignore his cries and pound away viciously, growling in Ernie's ear "SHUT UP! You shut the fuck up and take my prick, you snivelling bitch. I'm your God and you worship my cock, you understand?" and Ernie would press his face against the crucifix and moan "Fuck me, God! Fill my unworthy rectum with your holy seed, Lord Bert!", causing Bert's thrusts to build in intensity, reaching feverish levels of fervour as he'd yell "Take it, slut! Take it, slut!" repeatedly in conjunction with every violent smack of his pelvis into Ernie's red raw backside, finally emptying his nuts into the brutalised shitpussy with a shudder throughout his entire body.

But as Bert took his dick out, Ernie's swollen, tenderised, semen-lubricated manhole would involuntarily drop out a sizeable nugget of puppet shit, whereupon Bert would erupt into hysterical anger.

"You filthy motherfucker", he'd exclaim, "I just cleaned that floor! You're in for it now!". Then he'd uncuff Ernie, pick up the turd and smear it all over his face and mouth, yelling "Eat your fuckin' shit, you fuckin' homo dirtball. Eat it! Eat your shit!". And Ernie would be all like "Oh gee, Bert. I sure have been naughty. I'm a naughty boy! I'm a naughty boy!" and he'd lap up that shit all over his lips and tongue, the stench becoming so bad that he'd puke all over his own face. Bert would be all like "It's time for punishment, you piece of shit. Give me your fuckin' cum!", and then he'd start sucking Ernie's cock like his face was attached to the business end of a jackhammer, occasionally stopping to yell abuse like "Spurt your cum fuckin' NOW or I'll bite off this tiny excuse for a prick", until Ernie started to shake and shout "Oh, Bert! Oh, Bert! I'ma cummin', Bert! I'ma cummin'!" and Bert would drain that cock dry, then take the mouthful of jizz and kiss Ernie full-force on his lips, the two of them thrusting their tongues madly into each others mouths, the shit and vomit and cum forming a cocktail of pure passion that they drink deeply from each other, finally collapsing in an exhausted pile of sweat, semen and satisfaction.

Then they'd go to sleep, wake up the next morning and teach your kids how to count to 12.

Maybe that's all a little outrageous, but the principle behind it rings true. This is not so much a review, more a reflection of true human nature. Physically, we see dirt and grime as something that accumulates externally, easily wiped away to expose a clean, fresh surface beneath. Metaphysically, when it comes to the human race, it's cleanliness and purity and innocence that is the external veneer, housing our less societally acceptable urges. Lust camouflages itself behind love. Kindness hides deceit. A plastered-on fake smile is suicide's favourite disguise.

Bert and Ernie may not indulge in sadomasochistic scatplay, but behind the voice of Elmo, you have the alleged rape of a minor. Behind the family classic The Wizard of Oz, there's an abused Judy Garland and drunken midget orgies. Behind Jimmy Saville's Jim'll Fix It, you'll find decades of molested children and a revolting conspiracy of cover-up. Behind Rolf Harris' smile is a debauched lust for pubescent pussy. And don't even get me started on the Catholic Church...

No matter how far civilisation develops, you'll never be able to stop mankind from being foot-fucked and squeezing childhood icons out of its ass. Scratch beneath the surface of anything that purports to be pure and what do you find? Filth, and plenty of it. A lot of it's bad, but a lot of it's pretty damn cool if you ask me. The Anal Birth of Bert belongs to the latter kind. Sure, it may leave your psyche temporarily in tatters, like a freshly fisted anus. But ultimately, it's just harmless fun.

See? I told you this was gonna be sexy!

Richard Griffin's Flicks and Sarah Nicklin's Tits

Part 1

Way back in 2007, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's plan to create a double feature emulating trashy '70s B-movies was quite a novelty. Since then, the idea has become as far from a novelty as you can get. In the wake of Grindhouse, a fucking motherfuckton of exploitation homages have been jizzed on to the eyeballs of horror-loving audiences. Throwbacks are now about as original as found-footage flicks. Most of them are pre-packaged cult films, frustratingly filled with faux-seriousness and knowing winks-at-the-audience. Still, I quite like them because, unlike found-footage, they're actually entertaining. I'm the kinda guy who thinks tits, gore and rape are a lot more fun than night-vision handicam shots of doors moving slightly. Crazy, I know.

So next up on the chopping block is Richard Griffin's The Disco Exorcist, a movie I'd been absolutely dying to check out for ages, ever since I first laid eyes on the cool DVD cover earlier that afternoon. We're talking 3, maybe even 4 hours of anticipation. Did it live up to all the incredible things I hadn't heard about it? Let's find out!

 Imagine if Saturday Night Fever was a splatter flick. Sounds cool, right? That's pretty much what you've got with The Disco Exorcist. Our hero is a fella named Rex Romanski. This is him -

Damn, those are some suave motherfuckin' threads. Naturally, looking that cool, Rex is a total pussy magnet who spends his nights loving and leaving all the ladies down at the local disco. The mayhem starts when he poons a voodoo priestess, only to then promptly ditch her for his favourite porn star Amoreena Jones. The spurned witch bitch unleashes demonic forces en masse onto the couple and everyone around them.

As throwbacks go, this one is pretty freakin' great. It avoids any faux-serious pratfalls by being a straight-up horror-comedy; not especially funny, but still a shitload of fun. The look of the film is a balance between authentic and exagerrated, filled with gaudy colours and general '70s stylings. Best of all, Richard Griffin does the one thing that Grindhouse totally failed at - he fills his movie with lots and lots of tits.

Right from the off, there's tits before the opening credits - 

There's tits during the opening credits -

The evil chick is kind enough to give us a gander at her tits -

There's even some male tits for all the women and pillow-biters out there -

Basically the only chick who doesn't show tits is the headliner, Sarah Nicklin. Instead we get shots like this -

Or this -

Most annoying, I'm sure you'll agree, and doubly so because she plays a fucking porn star. Admittedly, my short-term memory ain't the best nowadays and it's been around 17 minutes since I watched any porn, but I seem to recall that the actresses involved in such productions usually get their tits out.

I couldn't help but wonder: Who's to blame for this tit-covering travesty? Does Sarah Nicklin simply not want to bare her tits for the world to see? Or was it a deliberate directorial decision, echoing low-budget productions of the past where tits would appear in abundance, but the main starlet would remain clothed?

There's only one surefire way to fucking solve this cunt of a conundrum. I need to watch another Richard Griffin flick...

**********************************************

Part 2: The Retitsening

This is a sequel review to the review you just finished reading. Kinda like what Aliens is to Alien - faster-paced and more action-packed. It blows the first review out of the goddamn airlock. State of the badass art. And you, you little shithead, you're staying here. You always were an asshole, Gorman.

But mostly it's just pictures of tits. Mostly.

So there's Sarah Nicklin on the poster, looking all hot in a nun's getup. Surely she exposes her tits in this one, right? I'm not expecting her to be topless for the whole movie or anything. I'd be happy with just a 10-20 second shot of her with tits thrust straight at the camera, maybe with her sensually caressing them and uttering a line or two of dialogue about how she loves it when drunken, 30-something Aussie guys shower them with warm semen. I don't think that's asking for too much.

So, Nun of That is about a supertroupe of highly trained, vigilante nuns who kick ass for the Lord and gun down drug dealers and murderers. Blah blah, blah, plot stuff, etc. Let's cut to the tits.

Whilst it has nowhere near the level of tits as The Disco Exorcist, there's still a few nice pairs on display. Sarah Nicklin's is not among them. I don't understand it. Does she hate me? Here she is in a shower scene, not showing her tits -

Debbie Rochon has a small role in the film, but she also doesn't show her tits. She just wears a nun's habit, which is fairly hot, but not as hot as her tits. Here's her tits as seen in a different movie -

What the hell, I love the Rochons, so let's have another look at them -

Linnea Quigley and Brinke Stevens aren't in this movie at all. You think that's gonna stop me from showing a piccie of those 2 sultry vixens and their awesome tits? Not a chance. Here you go -

You know who else has really great tits? This chick from the 2007 movie Brain Dead -

I haven't seen that one, but shit on my chest and call me Stinktits if that isn't one of the greatest racks you've ever seen.

Okay, where was I? No idea. Guess I should wrap this up.

In summary, The Disco Exorcist is the bomb; a near-perfect mixture of cheese and sleaze that's guaranteed to satisfy unless you're one of those fuckwits who cares about fancy production values. Check it out. I hate to be too forceful with my recommendations, but if you don't watch this then I'll skullfuck your mother, film it and put the tape on youtube, understand? No pressure. Nun of That is not as essential, but it's a fun enough time if you've got a spare 90 minutes to kill.

As for Sarah Nicklin? She's my latest mission. The world needs to know that it is not acceptable for a woman to star in an exploitation movie without flashing her tits. I'll scour every inch of this globe, leaving no stone unturned, until I find a picture of her tits. She makes the slightest nip-slip, then I'll be there to capture it on camera. I don't care if she's standing topless next to the prophet Mohammed, I'll take that photo and publish it here. I'll gladly risk jihad in the name of filth. If anyone reading this knows Sarah Nicklin's tits, then you tell 'em I'm coming... and hell's coming with me, you hear? HELL'S COMING WITH ME!!!
 
Until next time... You stay filthy, folks.

The Many Faces of Rik Mayall

If I went through and counted up every single laugh I've ever had in my life, then tallied up the individuals who'd given me those laughs, Rik Mayall would easily be in my top 3 laugh providers. Considering how obsessively I used to rewatch Bottom - a show where even the opening credits sequence makes me laugh every single time - he may be numero uno on my official laughter list. I have a lot to thank him for.

They say that laughter is the best medicine. If that's true, then Rik has probably cured me of a few dozen terminal cancers.

As a comedian, he had every big gun there is - a fine character actor, a tremendously witty wordsmith and a sensational physical performer. He could take a fake punch better than anyone on the planet. One of the most naturally gifted funnymen there's ever been. Just look at Lord Flashheart: In 12-odd hours of Blackadder, Flash appears for a total of about 15 minutes. That's all the time Rik needed to steal the show and create a character that's still remembered. It takes a truly special talent to pull that off.

He didn't write the part of Flashheart, but he owned it. When Rik stepped out on the stage or in front of the camera, it was like a fucking hurricane of comedic energy. Few could stand up to that force, let alone compete with it.

Of course, one man not only competed with that energy, but complemented it and drove it to greater heights: Adrian Edmondson.  Although they'll both be most well known for the Young Ones, it's the Rik and Ade partnership that stands out for me, in whatever form it took - Bottom, Dangerous Brothers, Mr Jolly, etc.

With most comedy duos - Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Jerry and Deano - there's the Straight Man and the Funny Man. With Rik and Ade, it was more like the Mad Man and the Even Madder Man; the two of them swapping roles on a minute-by-minute basis. Separate, they're both still great, but put them together and a magical concoction of pure chaos is formed. Utterly demented and utterly hilarious carnage. Like nitro meeting glycerin. Like the Henry Lee Lucas and Otis Toole of comedy.

Never before or since have two men so extensively and exhaustively beaten the living shit out of each other in the name of comedy. Fists, boots, cricket bats, frying pans - any object on hand, these guys would smash into each others faces. We've seen broken noses, broken limbs, chopped off fingers, countless mortal injuries, oceans of guzzled booze and an entire Kleenex factory worth of spunk rags. They made an artform out of punching each other in the bollocks. If that wasn't enough, they also invented the now-classic party game, Put A Bit Of Sellotape On The Fridge.

There's been plenty of other characters throughout the years too, including Alan B'Stard...

Adonis Cnut...

Colin Grigson...

Micky Love...

Generally, I don't much care when a celebrity dies. This time, it hurt. I popped in a Bottom DVD, tentative about rewatching his classic material, because I thought the humour would now be tinged with melancholy. But it wasn't. It was just as funny as the first time I saw it. That's how good he is. Not even his own death can prevent him from being funny. A genius is dead and I can't stop laughing my fuckin' arse off.

So yep, The Lamb and Flag is closed for good. Richard Richard has left the building. The crazy, mad, wild-eyed, big-bottomed anarchist has gone up in flames. The Falklands veteran will never again shut Tucker's finger in the tank door and is off to meet his mates Ginger, Tommy, Tiddles, Spot, Joey, Snowy and, uhm, Corky...

The People's Poet is dead. But he's still making me laugh and he'll keep on making me laugh, until my own freedom bus to Goodtime City plummets over a cliff.

RIP, farewell and, most of all, thanks.

L.A. Zombie (2010)

With the recent decease of the Reverend Fred Phelps, I thought I'd honour his passing by reviewing some gay porn. It's what he would have wanted, I think. Perhaps while you're reading, you could also pay your respects by mentally picturing him in a massive gangbang with loads of muscular, hung studs. An image I'm sure the man himself thought about on many an occasion...

I must admit, I was a little disappointed with Bruce La Bruce's Otto Or Up With Dead People. Sure, it had plenty of microbudget creativity, but it just didn't deliver on the gay zombie front. When I hear a movie described as "ya know, that gay zombie porno", I expect a throbbing, pulsating bonerload of gay zombie porn. Scene after scene of sweaty gay zombie on gay zombie bumlovin'. Well-hung gay zombies cornholing pert gay zombie ass, slobbering gay zombie tonguelove all over gay zombie ballsacks, slurping out gay zombie shitholes and spurting massive loads of warm gay zombie ejaculate all over silky-smooth, immaculately waxed gay zombie chests and gay zombie eyebrows. I have standards, and Otto sadly didn't meet them. Fortunately, Brucey well and truly rectumfied this gay zombie shortage with his follow-up feature, LA Zombie, a movie that fully deserves the title of "Ya know, that gay zombie porno".

It's important that I state upfront that I'm not the target audience for this movie, because I'm not gay. Seriously. Not even a little. My fashion tastes are rubbish, I don't own any skin moisturising products, I'm a terrible dancer and I didn't get one single erection when I watched Fight Club. Given the choice between eating a chocolate icecream and having a lengthy bout of frantic anal sex with another man, I'd choose the icecream everytime. And I don't even like chocolate icecream all that much. If a male friend of mine wore a trendy new pair of pants, I probably wouldn't notice, and even if I did, I'd just say something like, "Hey bro, cool pants." I definitely wouldn't say, "Hey bro, cool pants. The tightness in the crotch really accentuates your nicely-sized and highly desirable penis which, incidentally, I'd love to have thrusting vigorously inside my aching man-minge over and over until it gushed baby yoghurt all over my lower back." Nope. Wouldn't even think something like that. That's how not gay I am.

So now that any doubts about my sexuality are out of the way, it's time to press Play and watch a bunch of hot, big-dicked studs fuck the fucking shit out of each other. FUCK YEAH!!!

Our undead homo poonfest begins with the main character, hereafter referred to as "Z", wandering out of the ocean, looking all zombieish and with his dead gay johnson flappin' around in the waves. He hitchhikes naked for a while, as gay zombies tend to do, before being picked up by a handsome young man. In fact, almost everyone in the movie is a good-looking male - a fairly sensible casting choice for any gay porno. Anyhoo, a car crash ensues which leaves the driver splattered all over the road and Z with an aching death-boner in need of a warm hole to be filled. He has sex with the dead guy's intestines for a while, which brings him back to life. Not particularly plausible, but I applaud any movie that prizes gutfucking above medical accuracy. The two dudes have some more sex (this time in the bumbum instead of the abdomen) before Z pulls out and delivers a massive bloodspunk facial from his horned cock. Even for a straight dude, this is already way more badass than that fancy-schmancy Pirates crap.

The movie is, like most porn, structured around the sex scenes, only with a gay zombie twist. We get a series of unrelated events where Z happens across tragedy and raises the deceased with his unholy hard-on. Death lurks behind every corner, ready to fucked back into the light.

There's enough variety to keep things interesting though.

Take the scene where a dead gangbanger is dumped out of a car with a gunshot in his forehead and Z does his Lazarus thing by rubbing his dick on the bullet hole. Original, to say the least. This moment also highlights what a low-budget endeavour this is. A higher budget would have been nice for better FX, to give us viewers the full pleasure of a forceful skullfucking. I guess, even among gay porn enthusiasts, not many people want to chip in funds to see some dude in zombie makeup pounding his fuckin' hardon into another dude's gaping cranial wound. That's the tough thing about being a filmmaker - balancing cash against pure artist vision; making allowances and on-the-spot aesthetic judgements; forever being assaulted with difficult questions like "Does my movie really require graphic closeups of a zombie splunging his fuckstick into a corpse's trephinated skull-pussy?" All the greats - Murnau, Welles, Hitchcock, Kurosawa, Coppolla, Spielberg, Nguyen, etc - have had to ask themselves this exact thing at some point in their career.

Given the cheapness of the production, it all looks quite nice though. Hard to judge porn on its technical qualities really. I'm not gonna pretend the acting is Oscar standard, but I can say that the main actor, Francois Sagat, is totally hot. I'd blow him. Not in a gay way obviously. But after a few beers, if he asked nicely, I'd tentatively give his penis a squeeze and delicately wrap my lips around his glans (wiping away any precum first, coz I'm not gay), then rub the tip of my tongue over his frenulum and corona while jerking his shaft (only lightly though, coz I'm not gay), cupping his scrotum in my other hand and tickling his perineum with my index finger, slowly moving it further back to softly probe his anus (only up to the first knuckle though, coz I'm not gay), while I finally engulf his entire length and work it with hand and mouth while massaging his swollen testicles, until he reaches exploding point and jets man-seed in my hair (obviously I wouldn't swallow any, coz I'm not gay). That's as far as I'd go though. Just a totally straight dude giving some other dude a non-gay blowjob for being especially handsome. Ain't nothin' gay about that. Hell, I'm so goddamn hetero, I'd probably pretend it was a woman's dick in my mouth.

An extra layer of interest is added to the film by reality

becoming skewed as the perspective flips between Z being a zombie and being a homeless bum. Is he an actual undead saviour with a life-giving boner, or just a mentally ill tramp? The latter option adds an extra layer of discomfort, purely due to the scene where Z gets his asshole tongued out. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally cool with analingus. I thought the mass ass-eating orgy was the finest scene in Sorority Sex Kittens 4. Even for fellas that love fellas, if you've got some fresh-faced twink who's just had a shower, then sure, go wild. Part those silky smooth ass cheeks and give his pristine, pink, puckering hole a tongueload of passionate loving. But a scungy homeless guy? How's that erotic in any way? You yank down his piss-stained pants that haven't been changed in a month. You stretch apart his grimy buttcheeks. Congealed anus-sweat causes his ass hairs to cling together, with dried ancient dregs of unwiped shit caught in them, like flies trapped in a spider web. You part the strands and dig your tongue inside. Slobbering saliva causes the dags of feces to moisten and smear against your cheeks and mouth, as wafts of unwashed rectal stench assaults your nostrils, so thick you can feel it in the back of your throat. Anyone turned on by that? Cause I'm not. And I'm a pretty weird guy.

On the other hand, this zombie/bum dichotomy does add depth and provide the movie with its overarching theme, which is alienation. Regardless of which he is, Z goes about his business deliberately ignored or abhorred by everyone. The freeform, non-plot driven porno style gives the whole thing an almost existentialist slant; the lonesome wandering of the outcast, trying to understand an alien world. This is outsider art about the plight of the outsider. Director Bruce LaBruce is an anomaly among gay filmmakers, in that he produces queer art that rejects standard gay culture as being no less normative than any paradigmatic exemplar of the hetero status quo. He uses the queer film template not to conform the culture to the norm, but to be anarchic within it; gay porn designed to be rejected by the gay community. From the Nazi regalia of Raspberry Reich, to the anal amputee stump-fucking of Hustler White, to the zombie porn here, to the zombie terrorist porn of his photographic art, LaBruce is the black sheep of the gay world, relatively unacknowledged even among the most liberal and accepting. This is quite special considering the GayVN happily handed a lifetime achievement award to Roger Earl, director of the piss-and-rape gay classick Born to Raise Hell. In a world where those desperately trying to stand out from the crowd are starting to become the biggest crowd of all, LaBruce makes being a genuine oddity seem natural and effortless.

I can't help but think that LA Zombie is an intentionally

grotesque satire on the whole porn industry. Watching porn that you're not turned on by really shows how ludicrous it all is. At the end of the day, zombie makeup, fake gore and blood facials ain't that much different to excessive eye-shadow, silicon tits and money shots. But more than that, it drives home how silly-looking sex itself is. All the tangled limbs and sweat and moaning and shuddering and protein mess. Take off your libido goggles and the whole thing is quite ridiculous. In a way, that's what makes good sex so awesome, because you don't care about looking ridiculous. It's where you can leave behind all your worries, forget about the outside world and truly live in the now. An orgasm is where you shed your entire personality and momentarily become a being of pure sensation. Even zombies deserve that feeling.

Bruce LaBruce: Artist. Iconoclast. Pervert. Legend.