NOTE - Updated With Postscript

Sleazy malignant fuck-soaked horror, sometimes that's all a man wants. Somethin makes the hairs on the eyes squeal for a fortnight, somethin makes the teeth crawl back into the damn gums, somethin so unwatchably unspeakably nasty ain't nothing in the world for it but a change of address and a new nose, on account of you don't ever wanna be associated with that fucker ever again, that hellhound sat front row centre back in the day with a blade in each hand, chuckling to himself, the most depraved barbarity he ever saw unfolding up yonder in the 2:35.

Listen to the whispers at the cineplex doors, aye, folks shakin with the weight of The Passion Of The Christ still straddling the skull.

"I dare say I'll never sleep again, least without the assistance of a concrete block and six dozen sleepers. Did you see when the thing caught the face? Did you see? Did you open your eyes and just fuckin look at that maniacal shit right there?"

Cause fuck forbid you might admit that you enjoyed it.

Folks look all strange at a fella comes out a screening of Cannibal Holocaust with a grin from here till March on the mug.

So we say bout how it was devastating, a molestation of the very fabric of a man's humanity, all these sortsa things, even though, really, we were darin the rotten bastard to show us the unshowable, to make us feel the unfeelable.

So what's it gonna be, Rob Zombie, this is what I'm saying, waiting for The Devil's Rejects to fumble its way cross the auditorium and spray its foul wank-sauce cross the far wall.

What the hell's it gonna be?

Is this motion-film, the sorta sequel to 2003's House Of 1000 Corpses, is it gonna grab me by my great-granddaddy's knackers and bugger the pores out my skin, or is it gonna be just another over-hyped pseudo-grindhouse disappointment?

Is it gonna be House Of 1000 Corpses 2?

Is it?

In the dark, Zombie croaks somethin obscene into my earhole, something sounds a bit like the riff a "Thunderkiss 65", and what it does, what Zombie knows it does, is it grants that hoary ol' Carny access to a man's pineal. That riff dundadun's long the crest a the brain-gunk like few riffs before or since would ever dare contemplate, never mind attempt, by god.

A foolhardy behemoth soaked in Mamma's rabies, and The Duke hyped on the battered E, as in the chord, see, as in the musicological concern, not the smiley-face-on-white gets the hoodies all euphoric of a weekend.

And I'm sayin that was a cheap trick, Zombie, just like the time I started a conversation with a lass in a Nirvana shirt by hummin the first few bars a "Lithium" from the seat across the way.

A cheap trick, that was. A rape of my affections, but alright, fucker, make your move.