Omg, hot Hot HOT. Hot as balls, hotter than the tightest wrinkle in Satan's spinchter, hotter than a pile of pigshit on the fucking equator, did somebody stuff me inside of a Twinkie and try to microwave me, I'm dying I'm dying, I am in the prison camp of the Sweat Soup Nazi, drowning in an outhouse latrine full of tar and lava and Elmer's glue, I'm drowning in my own sweat, I feel like a two hundred pound snail nailed to a salt flat, bologna skin splitting open, gross gross gross.
It's really hot. I'm dying.
There is nothing to do here in Rhode Island on this sullen July afternoon with temps in the 90s and the humidity hanging precariously between "Wrestler's Wet Fart" and "Spoiled Lunchmeat" except drink beer, drink more beer and watch it all run back out of your pores again. Now all of the beer is gone and my faux leather computer chair feels like a kiddie pool. So may as well write another article.
The Sweatiest Horror Movies Ever Made!
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)
Summer in Texas. The swimming hole has dried up and blown away, the shimmer of gasoline lies across the highways like thickly coiled snakes and the barbecue pits churn out their carcinogen pungent fumes. No breeze, no rain, nothing to wash away the coppery stink of dried blood smeared all over the floorboards of the ancient farmhouse stashed back in God's country, a house that has never seen an A/C unit or even a Chinese box fan.
The environment was humid and the cast and crew found conditions tough; temperatures peaked at 110 on July 26. Hansen later recalled, "It was 95, 100 degrees every day during filming.
Throw in actual animal bones, real blood and rotting skin and can you even imagine how horrible that must have smelled? Like the inside of a bloody root canal. Like a meat carnival in a deep fryer. Like a hobo's underpants after a Taco Bell dumpster raid.
The Return of the Living Dead (1985)
July 4th - Louisville, Kentucky. Ugh, just the thought of the deep south in the summer conjures images of giant sweating cockroaches, rivers of gluey sweat and the ripe tang of BO rising up from the ground along with the dead. And acid rainstorm steams things up and pretty soon the muddy ground is mixed with congealing blood, thick ash and ropes of intestines. Meanwhile, the entire cast starts getting soggy, leaking fluids from every orifice, getting ranker and more yellow-crusty as the movie melts into a slimy puddle of toxic waste.
Predator (1987)
The jungles of South America. No idea what time of year because there's only one time of year in the South American jungles, and that is Mutherfucking Hot As Balls. The commando unit led by AhNald are not only sweaty, they're covered in camo colored greasepaint and haven't bathed for days. Tiny versions of the jungle through which they wade are growing in their armpits and asscracks as they squelch along, undoubtedly all reeking like raw sausage and now covered with blood and entrails as well. And you know that shit isn't going to dry out anytime soon, not with the humidity index hovering around Blowfly Orgy.
The Hills Have Eyes (2006)
Lost in the desert outside of California. Doesn't sound too bad, right? I mean, it's Cali-fucking-fornia, how far off can civilization be? Pretty fucking far, believe me. The desert is endless, baked hard and dry, bleached to the bone and mercilessly shimmering beneath the relentless eyes of the apocalyptic sun. It never rains and it's always eerily silent. Perfect place for a bunch of dirty cannibals with crusty, oozing, festering sores to hang out and be gross. They never bathe and it's always hot, so they've practically got a whole second skin made out of dried and redried sweat sitting on top of them like a neoprene suit, enclosing them like a bug chrysalis and sealing a miasma of atrocious odors safely for future archaeological discovery. They have electricity but don't bother to hook up the meat locker, preferring to let their chops season in the sun and stew in their own fetid juices. Literally.
Razorback (1984)
The Australian Outback: vast, barren and unforgiving. You can wander around for days out there and never see another human face. The only thing worse than that possibility is actually seeing a human face, especially the ones that belong to cave-dwelling kangaroo killing brothers Benny and Dicko, who dress like Mad Max rejects and whose clothes seem to be held together by sweatstains and spoiled food. Hard to believe anything smellier could live out there in the muck, but there's also a great big drooling hairy pig with tusks squealing around all over the place, shitting out body parts and wallowing in the filth steaming in the sun. It's difficult to tell the mud from the pigshit, the sweat from the slobber and the humans from the grunting, slovenly beasts.
And the winner is...
You're welcome.
No comments:
Post a Comment