Cannibal Ferox

First off, before you start scratching your head at the sight of the word "Ferox", the answer is no, it's not a word. Numerous searches of the word yield no result. With that in mind, watching this movie was sure to be a treat. Federico's basement has long been the breeding ground of our hysterical delight over everything from Asian broads throwing up on each other and eating it to Tubchumming (you don't want to know). Cannibals are surely no match for our seasoned immunity to all things sick and shocking.





The only real reason I wanted to see this film, besides sparing us a night of watching reruns of "Good Times" (more on that later), was because this particular film was something I remembered from my childhood. Remember those oversized coverbox horror movies that the mom and pop video stores used to carry? The kind that family friendly Blockbuster would never dare touch. At age nine, when you see an oversized coverbox of a movie called "Make Them Die Slowly" that was "banned in 31 countries", it certainly piques more interest than "The Adventures of Milo and Otis". So I guess in some small way my life has come full circle by actually viewing this film. Ok, maybe that's a stretch.

So here's where I get lazy. For me to sit and actually give a synopsis of the entire film and then critique it would be a huge undertaking. And its 1:45 AM, with my laptop resting precariously on my cheese popcorn engorged stomach. It's not happening. So here's what Wikipedia has to say...

Cannibal Ferox also known as "Make Them Die Slowly" is Umberto Lenzi's 1981 variation on Ruggero Deodato's "Cannibal Holocaust". The film is one of many to claim that it is the "most violent film ever made", is allegedly banned in thirty-one countries, although this is debatable; while the hype always speaks of 31 countries, it never seems to specify which 31 countries those actually are. Lenzi shamelessly beefs up what is basically a threadbare adventure yarn set in the Amazon jungle with some jaw-droppingly nasty set-pieces including animal mutilation, eye-gouging, castration, cannibalism (as the title suggests) and his coup-de-grace, a live and screaming female victim impaled through both breasts by suspended iron hooks, identical to the torture Richard Harris endured in A Man Called Horse. Although Lenzi's film is far from subtle, it's a fairly energetic piece with reasonable performances and some interesting points are made amidst the gore and mayhem. John Morghen (AKA Giovanni Lombardo Radice) offers a memorable turn as a drug-crazed, womanizing lout, and porn star Robert Kerman (the star of Deodato's film) turns up as a world-weary New York detective.

So now that you get the idea of what the movie was about, I can honestly state that we howled and laughed our way through this entire film. Genital mutilation? Crying with laughter. Woman suspended by iron hooks through her breasteses? On the floor. Random mutilation and eating of huge Amazonian turtle. That's where I draw the line. So wrong. Fucking depraved. I'm totally being sarcastic.

Anyways, there are a couple of points regarding this film that I need to comment on. First off, why does EVERY single Italian horror movie made between 1975-1985 all follow the EXACT same story arc. Literally. Opening credits= The New York skyline. These Italian filmmakers have more footage of lower Manhattan than all the Al-Qaidas in the Middle East (not to mention the sleazy, pre-Disneyfied Times Square!). First ten minutes of story= New York City. Rest of movie= Someone from New York City goes to jungle/deserted island to investigate a disappearence. People die horribly. The only difference is whether the killings are done by cannibals or zombies. Another thing, the dubbing is horrible, yet it seems that even the English speaking characters' voices are dubbed over, which I don't get. It appears that some actors are really speaking English and others Italian. Oh, and let's not forget the soundtrack to these films. "Cannibal Ferox" sports a soundtrack that any 1980 period piece would want- funky, four on the floor disco music over the opening credits, funky jungle-type atmosphere music, loud grating "cannibals are eating people" music. It's sort of like Madonna's first album, except replace the rubber bracelets and Boy Toy belt with some authentic beheadings and castrations.

So, once again, we have succeeded in entertaining ourselves with what was probably meant to shock and disgust most people. Next on the list..."Cannibal Holocaust". Not to be confused with "Zombie Holocaust"...Or "Zombie" (AKA "Zombie 2"). You need a scorecard to tell these movies apart, but if you happen to come across any film with any combination of the words "Zombie" "Apocalypse" "Cannibal" or "Holocaust" in the title, pick it up. Pop in the DVD. If the movie opens with disco music and the Twin Towers, you know it's gonna be good.


Pat gives the movie two iron hooks through the nipples up! Way to go!


Opening credits...Or Al-Qaeda handbook?


Mike just had his willy chopped off by the natives. Yet he will continue to run around the jungle, dickless, for the next 20 minutes bearing no signs of trauma.


Maybe if you didn't decide randomly that lesbian raping a native girl for no good reason, you wouldn't be in this cage screaming. Yes, you read correct.


Low carb, full of protein.

Slot Psychology and Dumb Luck

I just got back from what will probably be the last AC trip of 2005. If you are a follower of this blog then you already know what sort of crazy things happen down in AC. I thought after our last trip (see the AC Hookers post), subsequent trips could never compare or at least be remotely blog worthy.

Saturday pretty much ended up that way. I spent much of the night getting gang raped by the Bally's corporation and their shiny flashy slot machines. While sitting there literally feeding my diminishing pile of twenty dollar bills with little or no returns, I found myself acutely aware of the whole "slot machine psychology". At one point I even mentioned to Jay that I was enjoying playing "King Tut's Treasure" mostly for the "thunk" sound that came out of the machine when one of the "King Tut" symbols hit a payline. Sure, it was eating my bills faster than a fat person at the Virginia City Buffet, but I just couldn't get over that "thunk" sound. It made me think about what exactly attracts me to whatever slot machine I choose to sit down and play. I don't just sit at any machine. I stalk the aisles, looking for the perfect machine. Obviously, games like "Slingo" or "The Price Is Right" are a no-brainer. Casinos don't even need to "sell" those games to people like me. The slick design, interactive gameplay and promise of winning a Showcase Showdown are enough. Other machines, such as the old-school 3 line slots have to work a little harder to attract my attention. But, much like an infant is attracted to shiny colorful toys that light up and make noise, I find myself drawn to splashy bright promises of "PROGRESSIVE PAYOUT" or "10 TIMES PAY" or "BLAZIN' BONUS REEL". The more noise a machine makes, the more likely I am to play it. I love every noise from the sound it makes when it accepts your credits to the payout sound when you hit. I love the little arpeggio melody that plays while the reels spin. I'm still trying to figure out the bizarre echoing "WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" that sounds like a ghost on one of those "Spooky Halloween Sound Effects" CDs when you play 5 credits on a nickel slot.

I could go on about this, but it would only further validate the fact that I am out of my mind and think way too much about these things. Point of story- slots=bad on Saturday night. I didn't even touch the table games because I had dug myself into a pretty deep hole by 2 am and didn't want to carry that miserable luck over to Let It Ride or Roulette- especially with a 15$ minimum. I went into the casino Sunday thoroughly defeated, figuring I'm not gonna be back for a few months, so might as well just finish off whatever $180 or so I had left. But, as luck would have it, I found myself at the Roulette wheel after a botched attempt at Let It Ride. I walked away from Roulette with $200, up from the $60 I had started with. Feeling pretty good that at least I hadn't failed miserably at every game in the casino, I sat down to play some 5 cent Double Joker Video Poker- something I wouldn't normally play- but figured why the hell not. After putting a 20$ in the machine and playing about 8 games in a row at 50 cents a shot (max bet) I wasn't getting anything- so I cashed out and moved to the opposite row of machines and put the ticket in that machine, hoping a different machine might pay out a little better. When the game credited up after accepting my ticket of $16 or so, I felt like something was wrong. I played twice in a row and hit the 2 pair minimum to win. But I only had 25 or so credits. What the fuck was wrong here?! I hit "max bet" in a bid to just finish off whatever was going with this screwed up machine and move on. I hit four of a kind (thank you joker). Three aces dealt and a joker on the draw. It all happened in seconds. I hit the "cash out" button and a ticket prints out for $240.00. I was completely confused and sure that somehow this machine was screwed up and printing wrong tickets. Then it hit me as I realized that I had moved across the aisle from the five CENT video poker to the five DOLLAR video poker- meaning that the four of a kind hit I made was on five DOLLAR machines' max bet- $25! I had been playing $25 hands of poker thinking it was 25 cents.



So I guess the moral of this story is that sometimes luck works in strange ways. Here I was all Saturday night, sitting at a machine that I was SURE was going to pay out a jackpot. Every spin of wheel I concentrated and willed the machine to do what I wanted. "Come ON...that's right...TRIPLE DIAMOND". And in the end it turns out the machine that actually pays me is a machine that I would never in my right mind put money into, let alone play with "max bet". I also learned that Roulette is actually a lot more fun than I ever thought it was. And while I don't think I'll be playing five dollar joker poker again anytime soon, it's nice to be able to come home with enough cash to say "well...I didn't win but I won enough back that I'm happy". And now at least I came home with enough to pay the rent that I don't have to take any money out of my next paycheck, and maybe I can actually bank a little bit of that.

Until next time...

Office Estrogen Fest

So, as you may or may not know from my past work related rants, the office I work in is one open space that is divided between two companies. There is Diggit (my company) and there is H20, your stereotypical downtown NYC graphic design firm. And by stereotypical I mean it's thoroughly comprised of pink cardigan wearing gay dudes (well, just one, but he speaks for the masses) and a bunch of twenty and early thirty-something girls. They go about their day talking in their design-speak, most of which I am usually able to effectively block out as I spend my work day toiling over updating my MySpace profile.

While I am immune to daily chatter about Photoshop and color schemes, there is something in this office that even my strongest superpowers cannot withstand. It is an evil force that strikes early in the day, when I am at my weakest. Even the smallest exposure to it causes my ears to bleed and my testicles to retract far into my stomach. It threatens the very basis of my manhood. You see, these girls control the music that plays throughout the office. And when it comes to music, the soundtrack of choice among graphic design girls is acoustic folky lesbian alt pop. That's really the best way to describe. I know not the artists nor the names of the songs, but you know the type: Picture a young, mildly unattactive girl with her guitar singin' about what it's like to be a young, mildly unattactive girl with a guitar. Think of Jewel's first album before the public decided that Jewel was going to be the top 40 poster girl of 1996. Before her platinum successes, she was just another mildly unattractive (see: Snaggletooth) poor girl with her guitar singing obnoxious songs like "Who Will Save Your Soul".


The stereotypical graphic design firm girls live and die by it. It soothes them. They relate to it. They do not know the pain and suffering it causes me. I mean, I've barely started to check my email for the day and I feel like my dick is just going to fall off my body and fall on the floor for the mice to eat. Do I really need to listen to this shit? The more I listen to it the more I feel my new breasts budding underneath my diesel muscle shirt.

While writing this, I decided to take an undercover mission to the domain of evil- the office CD player. Located on their side of the office next to the communal fax machine. So under the guise of sending a fax (a blank sheet of paper), I infiltrated this ugly, wretched place. Here is what I found...

Jem "Finally Woken".

My analysis: Some whiny pretentious British woman who uses colorful metaphors to describe the angst in her soul and grand sweeping phrases like "Finally Woken" to convey some sort of deep theological meaning. Oh sorry, I just threw up all over my self.

Aimee Mann "The Forgotten Arm"

My analysis: I think the picture says it all. Think of every ugly piece of imagery from the "Lilith Fair" that you can (a sweaty Sarah Maclachlan, the fat chick from Heart and Wynonna Judd getting it on backstage) and picture the soundtrack of it playing in an office.

Also seen in short: Madonna's "Immaculate Collection" (because, you know, any self respecting 30 year old graphic design girl still has gotta give it up for old school Madonna...she was so...empowering to them in high school), Howie Day "Collide" (unexplainable), Bjork "Medulla" (typical), The Cranberries and Annie Lennox (both typical).

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pick my balls up off the floor.