Though I'll never admit it in a room full of militant vegans, I'm what you might call a "meat eater." A carnivore. I'm a guilty flesh nibbler, a self-deprecating skin chewer. Sometimes my demonic craving for beef becomes too much to handle, and I force my lovely spouse to slit open a live heifer so I can slip inside Empire Strikes Back-style. Then, once the day has ended and I'm ready for bed, I just chew my way out from the inside. It's a startling sight to behold, for sure. Just ask my bewildered neighbors. I'm sure I bring down their property values by at least ten grand.
So it's quite fitting that I happened to be perusing the 1945 Animal Diseases Ordinance when my copy of Gregory Hatanaka's surreal 2006 epic Mad Cowgirl arrived unceremoniously upon my carcass-strewn doorstep. The UPS driver kindly informed me that I was violating several domestic laws by hanging cow gore from my porch, but I think he got the message when I brandished my crusty fillet knife and chased him screaming down the block. The pending investigation by local authorities will not in any way hinder my ability to deliver quality reviews in a timely fashion, of course. At least I hope not.
Trying to sum up the insanity found in Mad Cowgirl is a difficult affair, for sure, so please forgive me if I speak slower and louder than usual while gesticulating wildly towards various body parts for dramatic effect. The film follows the amorous adventures of Therese, a kung fu-obsessed health inspector who willingly ingests an unusual amount of bloody meat in between oral sex sessions with the sleazy Pastor Dylan (Walter Koenig). Their tumultuous on again, off again relationship is starting to take its toll on the poor woman, leading to a number of interesting sexual encounters with a stable of oddball individuals. The chick likes to stuff herself with meat in more ways than one.
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