Have I used "the stunning conclusion" in one of these reviews yet? Well, here it is. The stunning conclusion. Stunning in the same manner a small fluffy bunny is stunned by your car's headlights before your wheels grind it into a bloody pulp.
Why is there a latitudinal line for this guys fur growth?
Things sexier than a hairy guy in tighty-whiteys.
- Weeping sores
- Nail Fungus Jello
- Nail Fungus Jello with Crunchy Bits
- Same guy, same underwear, just wetter ... and from the front
- Infected Eye Gouge
Set design by Reynolds Wrap.
Miss Nymphet is back, and now she's been miniaturized and lives inside the circuit board of a CB radio. She's whispering again, either trying to be sultry or salty. You might think salty is a mistake, but she earns double tips during fleet week.
Splitting up the matador painting was the most painful part of the divorce.
Oh, hey, hello there, room, my old friend! It's been nearly two minutes since we've last had a skit in your wall-papered and probably pretty sticky confines. I don't think I've been kind enough about all the great things this hard-working room has brought to this film. The sick-giraffe-mucus colored sofa, for one. And how said sofa is slowly absorbing our thin-tied and thin-haired zinger-setup guy.
One hopes this movie gives us many more wonderful moments together, room!
Dresses were really, really short in the 60s!
Oh joy! It's the same room, and the same wonderful couch, with the additional of the man-child comedy cliché and the woman who obviously didn't check the mirror before she left the house.
Let's delve into fashion for a bit. I like short skirts. This woman has the legs to pull off a short skirt. Still, I think this might be a tad bit too short. The solution? Kick annoying Little Lord Fauntleroy right in the nuts. It's fashionable.
Special note: They switched the pictures. Tricky! It's like a whole new room!
At least it didn't say "other bargains around back."
This frame wouldn't come off so much as a cry for help if I explained the set-up is that she's at a kissing booth. I can hear the one or two of you who aren't automated web crawlers saying "ah-ha", and then moving on to the next picture, hoping I forgot to censor a nipple.
I do want a little credit here; what I did with that text was distract you from how utterly enormous that underwear is. That look isn't a smile, it's the last muscle twitch as whatever smell is wafting off those greasy briefs eats her brain cells.
I'm guessing that now I don't get that credit as I've probably fixated you on those mammoth junk squeezers.
The local community theatre production of Oklahoma was awful.
As this awful "lost" movie winds down like an old toy with a broken spring and six separate strains of syphilis, we get a couple rejected "zap" freezes. The good news: it looks like that guy on the left is about to fall over and smash that moron in the man-child costume. The bad news: The woman in blue hasn't noticed Rasputin sneaking up behind her.
The fainting woman on the right just realized it was a mistake to make a dress out of the mammoth underwear.
Somebody signed this.
And so here ends our journey into Miss Nymphet's Zap-In, a "lost" HG Lewis picture. I keep quoting "lost" because Lewis probably reviewed what he had with this and decided it wasn't even worth releasing, or whatever limited trial run he had caused major riots. I like to think of Lewis as exploitation's own Igor Stravinsky.
You're not buying that, are you?
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