"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 1/18/91 By Joe Bob Briggs
Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas
Wanda Bodine said to me, "Joe Bob, how can you go to the drive-in when this country is at WAR?"
And I said, "Well, I didn't realize that if I went to 'Bad Girls From Mars,' American soldiers might suffer as a result."
"It's just not RESPECTFUL," Wanda told me. "Soldiers are fighting, missiles are being launched, the world is going to hell in a handbasket, and you . . ."
"What's a handbasket?"
"You said the world was going to hell in a handbasket. What's a handbasket?"
"It's a BASKET you carry in your HAND."
"I don't get it."
"You don't get what?"
"I don't get how hell can be carried in a handbasket, even in a figure of speech."
"You're scum," Wanda told me. "You're useless scum."
"I guess you're one of those people who thinks we oughta cancel basketball games till the war's over?" I said to her.
"Yes I do."
"Because if we got busy watching basketball, then we wouldn't be sending the necessary Shirley MacLaine psychic VOODOO ENERGY over to the Middle East to help our boys kick hiney."
"Well, it would probably help their morale," Wanda said, "if we concentrated on their problems."
"Maybe I oughta just stop everything till the war's over," I told her. "Maybe I oughta stop watching TV, stop writing movie reviews, stop drinking beer . . ."
"Yes! I agree!"
". . . stop eating Eyetalian food, stop shaving . . ."
"You don't have to get carried away."
". . . stop taking showers, stop changing clothes . . ."
"No, I don't think so," Wanda told me.
"Oh, I guess what you mean is that I should just stop doing the PUBLIC things. I should stop having any kind of good time out where people can see me. But in private I should act just like normal. Kinda like church on Sunday morning--you need to bow your head ever once in a while so nobody'll notice your LIFE. Something like that?"
And then Wanda got all outraged, and she said, "Well, it's not like America fights wars just so that people like you can spend all their time going to drive-in movies."
And she walked out on me--stormed out of the room--and so I never had the chance to answer her. But what I would have said is:
That's EXACTLY the reason America fights wars. People in Russia stand in line all day to get food. People in America buy VCRs. People in Iraq tell lies to important people so their children will be allowed an education. People in America go to the mall. People in China keep their mouths shut at all times. People in America go down to the federal building and hassle the bureaucrats, then go home and get a good night's sleep without giving it a second thought. People in Albania wonder which of their neighbors is a spy for the security police. People in America wonder which movie to go watch.
The way you know a place is free is that people feel like it's okay to be TRIVIAL. The big stuff, they don't even have to talk about it.
So I went to the drive-in this week, too. After all, it was the patriotic thing to do.
Speaking of national treasures, Edy Williams is back! Edy the double-threat exhibitionist who demands to be allowed to take her clothes off in every scene! You scoff? Are you counting the years? Okay okay okay, MAYBE a few creases on the backside. Okay okay, MAYBE a little cellulite on the thighs. Okay, MAYBE she jiggles like a bowl full of jelly--but it's AMAZING jelly. In "Bad Girls From Mars," Edy is stalked by a killer transsexual dressed up like a ninja in a Jason mask who's trying to replace her as the star of a B movie. It's the old "Hollywood Boulevard" plot, back for the ninth time, thanks to the king of the B-movie quickies, director Fred Olen Ray. It's one of those B movies within a B movie that's a SPOOF of B movies while BEING a B movie and making fun of the SPOOF B movie and the REAL B movie at the same time. I think.
In other words, there's a whole bunch of nekkid dinglebobbers in this one. In fact, this is the first movie I've ever seen where a woman has these great headlamps . . . on her headlamps. To be precise . . .
Forty-nine breasts. Seven dead bodies. Groin-bashing. Lesbo catfight. Throat-slitting. Wrestling babes. Exploding supporting actress. Heads roll. Hands roll. 937 inside jokes for B-movie fans. Gratuitous blow-up party doll. Gratuitous liquor-store holdup. Kung Fu. Bimbo Fu. Cellulite Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Jasae, as the actress who says "We need healthy young earth studs to repopulate our world--we need your love rocket"; Brinke Stevens as the wardrobe mistress, for stripping during the boring scenes, and for saying "I can't find the right person to kill to get into the movies"; and, of course, Edy Williams, for stripping off all her clothes nine times (including twice in the back of a moving convertible in the middle of Beverly Hills) and for saying "The smell of garbage turns me into a wild woman!"
Joe Bob says check it out.
JOE BOB'S ADVICE TO THE HOPELESS
Terrorism Alert! A new weenie indoor-bullstuff multi-barf-plex opened last summer in San Mateo County, Calif., called the Century Park 12, and it's on the hallowed graveyard where the Redwood Drive-In once stood! Didn't these people see "Poltergeist"? It took TWELVE--count em, TWELVE--indoor screens to replace one drive-in. Sandy Chapin of Redwood City asks "What is this world coming to?" and reminds us that, without eternal vigilance, it could happen here.
To discuss the meaning of life with Joe Bob, or to get free junk in the mail and his world-famous "We Are the Weird" newsletter, write P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221, or leave your name and address on Joe Bob's comedy line, 1-900-4-JOEBOB ($1.50 first minute, 75 cents each additional). Joe Bob's Fax: 214-368-2310.
Dear Joe Bob,
After a recent purchase of a new vehicle, it is my personal theory, most murders are committed because of car salesmen. Could this be true?
Also, with the interest rate they gave me, hell I could have charged it on my Visa and been better off. Please remind your readers to take a big jar of Vaseline with them when they go car shopping. I wasn't even kissed.
Are you saying you thought $28,000 was too much for that Yugo? What kind of Fantasy Land are you living in?
Dear Joe Bob,
Tell me what kind of a moron decided to include in the warning list on a hair dryer, "Do not use in the shower"?
It's that guy whose eyes point in different directions.
Hey Joe Bob!
All the videos we get over here in Operation Desert Shield have the breast scenes hacked out of them. Maybe the new NC-17 ratings will bring a resurgence in fleshtones and jiggle/wiggle shots.
I'm in one of the USAF bomb disposal teams out here (classified location) waiting out the news. It's been 62 days abroad now, with no end in sight. Biggest entertainment so far is hearing about the budget shenanigans! Nothing like a healthy tax hike and a layoff to go home to. Keep the inspired work coming.
U.S. Air Force
You know what they do to you in Saudi Arabia if they catch you looking at a nekkid breast?
They "correct" your eyeball.
Don't even think about it.
Joe Bob Briggs:
I read your "Joe Bob's America" in which you stated that no one has printed the 2 Live Crew Lyrics. Since I wrote an editorial for the Indiana University newspaper in which I quoted extensively from my own cd of 2 Live Crew, I thought I'd send you a copy.
As you can guess, it sure caused a stir. The feminists were mad because I propagated lyrics harmful to woman, the serious journalists declared I was sensationalistic, and the church groups, well, you know how they complain. Surprisingly enough, though, the high sheriffs of the Indiana Daily Student decided it was courageous and stood firmly behind it.
Anyway, just thought you might enjoy the article. I must admit, controversy sure is fun. This isn't the first time I've been in trouble with the bimbos and the Bible-thumpers, but it certainly is the most trouble I've had with them. Oh, well, you know how it is.
Stay in trouble,
The college press has been very hip on this issue. Evidently it takes a lot of years and a lot of money and a whole lot of TV-watching before you develop the soul of a censor.
I think we should bring back the battle cry of the sixties:
Don't trust anybody over thirty.
Last night I understood. But that was last night before Uwanda the swamp witch and that was before the curse had been placed upon my head. Honest, my name's not Eric the Stainmaster, but alas that is part of the curse as well. I sure hope you can help cause this is my last piece of paper and I don't have much in the line of toilet paper either.
O.K. All right. I guess I had brought it on myself. Christ! If I had known. Blackness. Complete and utter. It was as if the ground beneath me was a storm. Shaking. What could one expect? Uwanda the Swamp Witch weighed in at an easy 460 pounds. The gnarled and wiggling front tooth called to me as she smiled and said "No, prob. Luvem' cracker!!" Her bloated and fungus-covered black body seemed to disappear as she shifted past a large pile of coal she used in the furnace in her hut. Teeth. Eyes. Palms. Uwanda.
"Voodoo is ma' ting," she said as she flicked a fist-size wad of dried mucous from her crossed eye. Cool, I thought. The grand master of Ointment had put the Voodoo on me, or so my connections in Utah had said. Now, I would intercept and set myself on the Funk Voodoo Jive Offensive. FVJO for short.
She engulfed my entire head and up to my chest with her huge mouth. A kiss. Oh Uwanda of the mucky mire, I thought. She spewed my body on the dirt floor and began a chant. A little chant something like this:
He's only 30 years old
But his face looks like a weathered road
He only likes one thing
That's why they call him the Cacti King
For the words of the prophets were written on the studio walls Concert hall
Wait . . . wait . . . What the hell is going on?!!
"Watch that phosphorous appendage!!" I shouted as Uwanda danced insanely over a bowl full of Cheetos. "Woo Woo, Cracker in the West gonna gets' it good!" she belched. I could only nod as my head spinned at the sight of all the empty Taco Bell bags littering the floor of the hut. I managed a smile. "Stains! Stains! Chicken blood fall like rain!" she screamed. It was done. The spell was cast. The grand master of Ointment had the Voodoo curse coming down. Chronic bed-wetting would be the technical term. The plastic sheet boogie is what Uwanda whispered in my ear as I headed for the door. Her jiggling lips smacking on those fruit pies told me that I had paid her well.
It had been quite a night. I laid in my bed staring at the ceiling. I could still se Uwanda--black, robust. I laughed as I injected the syringe. Mr. Ed. Ride em' cowboy. The number 4.
Daniel E. Weber
It's time to tell ALL the NICE people at the Schick Clinic about Uwanda the wicked black voodoo lady. Don't you think so?