Episode 100 – The Fall of the Louse of Usher (2002)

or “Love. Love Will Tear Us Apart Again”

Featuring: James “Black Milk” Johnston , Eliza “Boudica Bites Back” Russell , Marie Findley

Writer & Director: Ken “Tommy” Russell

Also Known As: The Fall of the Louse of Usher: a Gothic Tale for the 21st Century ; Ken Russell’s The Fall of the Louse of Usher

Origin: UK


“Even if you come in here sane, no way you’re gonna get out of here anything but crazy!”

Guten tag, schmutz-kinder! Today marks the annual event known to wrestling fans as Wrestlemania. On a larf, I thought it would be fun to do a roundtable of reviews for Ken Russell movies. What does Ken Russell have to do with professional wrestling? Nothing. At least not that I know of. No, the theme for this gathering exists for no other reason than because it lends itself to the ‘table’s puntacular title!

Yep. That's the kinda shit I do. And thanks to my fellow cinemasochists for taking this journey with me! Though never a big Ken Russell fan, I have seen a few of his better known flicks. I thought Altered States was a fun acid trip through pseudo scientific madness, Tommy was an enjoyably dark and unique musical experience, and Lair of the White Worm is still one of my favorite flicks to come out of the UK and the definite catalyst for my bizarre attraction to serpentine women who want to eat me alive. Despite the creep-ass little goblin from the cover of the Gothic VHS being burned into my memory from childhood, I never got around to renting it. From what Ragnarok has to say in his review, it sounds like I didn’t miss much. Too bad that copy of The Devils I sent him was rerouted back to me via USPS, otherwise he could’ve reviewed that instead. Stupid lack of proper postage!

Before I get started, I’m throwing out the disclaimer that this review is going to be a rush job, so apologies if it lacks the polish (or Polish) of other episodes. I’ve been entangled on the battlefield of the mind in a war with the Overfiend for possession of my soul and just recently managed to lock the beast away in the Crystal of Zoloft, putting me at odds with my own predetermined due date. As such, I’ve filled my gut tank with several cans of Tear Ass energy drink from Dollar Embargo to give me the fuel I need and, as an odd side effect, the ability to taste color! I can confirm that, yes, purple is indeed a fruit. The only flavor they had on-shelf was the nebulous “Citrus X”. Unlike Chemical X, which turns inanimate objects into Powerpuffs, the only thing Citrus X transforms is the odor of your urine. My piss bucket smells like it’s full of orange peels swimming in battery acid. I’m not 100% sure my kidneys aren’t going to explode by the time we get to the moral of this story. Oh well. Sallying forthwith!

In the twilight of his career, Kenny Russell wasn’t much for movie making. He stuck with weird short subject shit for the most part, while my pick for this Celluloid Zeroes collaboration is the final feature length flick the freaky fiend filmed before punching his ticket to the Underworld in 2011. And when I say “filmed”, I don’t mean it literally, because The Fall of the Louse of Usher was shot entirely via camcorder!

Yes indeed my flowers and weeds, the technology your parents used to have to rely on when they wanted to make their own sex tapes (back when they were actual tapes) is the medium through which Uncle Ken chose to tell this backyard gothic rock opera of his. And I gotta say, upon discovering this, my immediate concerns were that I had been bamboozled and this wasn’t the same Ken Russell I was looking for. Learning that its legitimacy is legitimate however, I felt like I was watching home movies of someone’s grandpa in the final days of a fatal cancer diagnosis. Without mincing words, you just can’t shake that awful feeling of pity for seeing someone brought so low. Even if just done as a simple pet project to have fun with his friends and neighbors (which it was), it still feels so beneath what the man had done with his prestigious (or at least semi-prestigious) career that it’s… well… pathetic. If they’d kept it as a private joke to share with each other and bring out for summer barbecue viewings, that’d be one thing. But to put it out on a DVD and demand people pay to see it? By Roger Daltrey’s tasseled togs, are you fucking yankin’ my crank?! Clearly not, otherwise I’d have nothing to rag on here! Well, aside from the extension cord I use for a belt.

Roger Daltrey – Innovator of the “glue huge strands of cooked spaghetti to your sleeves” look.

Okay, enough puttin' off the lovin'. Let's rinse off our genitals, put on my Lou Bega mixtape of bone medleys, and bang this bitch out like Sean Michaels (the porn actor, not the wrestler)! Let's just hope we don't let loose any two-cheek squeaks (or squeakquels) while we're at it.

The setting for our story in simply “Orange County, USA” according to our opening. Okay, so is it the Orange County with the arguing family of motorcycle builders, the one with Mischa Barton, or one of the half-dozen other fucking Orange Counties in the damn country!? Though it’s later revealed that our setting is the West Coast edition, that tiny tidbit of info would’ve been nice to know beforehand. As Baphomet would say, “Bah”.

Roderick Usher (James Johnston, who doubles as the movie’s composer) is a goth rock musician 20 years behind the curve. Lead guitarist and singer/whiner (and occasional whisper rapper) of a heretofore unnamed band (might I suggest “The Poegues”?), he’s arrested for the suspected murder of his wife/maracas player, Annabelle Lee (Emma Millions), to whom everyone likes to attach the preface descriptor of “Sweet”. Not so sweet when she’s found walled up in the Usher house with half her face missing and her pet mini-pincher chewing through her guts! Since her rocker widower is clearly off his rocker at the time of his capture, barely coherent and ranting about his innocence, rather than going to prison Roddy’s instead carted off to the local loony bin. Here he’s put under the care of the demented Dr. Calahari (Ken Russell) and his sex bomb assistant, Nurse ABC Smith (Marie Findley).

Not a good sign of things to come… pun intended.

Not just another bimbo in a medical fetish costume, ABC (Already Been Chewed?) is one of those wonderfully empowered ladies who uses her sexuality to manipulate others into getting what she wants, the endgame of which is often something fatal for those seduced by her charms. Also, as everyone is keen to point out, “She’s a great piece of ass”. Pretty much what you’d expect from a Russell girl.

They’re similar to “Bond girls”, only way more likely to be emotionally damaged and way more likely to have some manner of underlying disfigurement that will make you paranoid of any woman who hits on you during last call. Not unlike how Basket Case taught women to never talk up any guy at a bar carrying a picnic basket.

Hellooooooo Nurse!

Russell's oddball headshrinker has a penchant for wearing a variety of headpieces, which may or may not be the writer/director/producer/editor/cinematographer/actor's unsubtle pun to the audience that he himself is a “man of many hats”. Or, it could just be a sign that he had a bunch of goofy hats lying around in his home prop box that he thought would make for a running gag funny only to him. Either or. Said fetishizer of up top props also puts on a “hard to pinpoint but I'm pretty confident it's meant to be German because ABC keeps referring to him as 'Herr doktor'” accent that sounds exactly like the frantic urine lab doctor from the English dub of Dominion: Tank Police. And if you don’t know what that is, your life is a little less happy than it should be. Fix that. Soon. Or be forever denied existence as a complete person. Tank Police. Feel the power that we’ve got. We’ll give it our best shot.

No sooner is Rod tossed into his new cell then he starts in on the standard issue sexually deviant hallucinations that every lead of a Ken Russell movie suffers from. In this case, our hero envisions an orgy of blow up dolls that includes an inflatable dinosaur for added “Da fuq?!” factor. As he writhes, physically in his straight jacket and emotionally in his madness, ABC looks on intrigued. Speaking of our Nightingale on Elm Street, her role at the hospital is seemingly as Calahari’s personal caretaker more so than as his assistant. Much of their screen time together is spent with ABC feeding him, cleaning out his ears, and constantly checking the old fart’s vitals while they discuss the Usher case. Mayhaps the demented doc is a hypochondriac and needs frequent reassurance that he’s in stable health? Could it be that he’s due for a mandatory physical by the Department of Health? Then again, it may just be a thinly-veiled metaphor about how nurses tend to do all the work as doctors sit around getting fat off their fancy college degrees and trying their best to distinguish between a patient’s sphincter and a hole in the ground… which should probably raise some concerns from everyone given that doctors’ offices generally don’t include holes in their floors.

While DC and ABC try to unravel the mystery of Annabelle’s death (and whether it has anything to do with Roderick’s sister/violinist Madeline Usher [Ken’s wife Eliza Russell]) With a bona fide celebrity in their midst, Cal wants ‘Rick to perform for the institution’s patients-and-staff mixer, leaving it up to ABC to do the convincing. When her lusty demeanor isn’t enough to persuade the disturbed music maker, she confines him to a makeshift torture bed (that looks to be a beach chair with a blanket tossed over it) as a swinging pendulum butcher knife gradually descends back and forth above his pelvis. Though the protag laughs off her threat, citing an erectile deficiency, he’s not so sure of himself when XYZ reveals that she gave him Viagra. At the mere mention of her boner juice roofie job, Lil’ Rod (sounds like a personal problem) springs to life and Mr. Usher gives in to his caretaker’s demands. Good thing my doc’s accompanying CRN isn’t that hardcore. Being the world’s worst diabetic, she’d have had me paying dues to the Eunuchs Union Local 37 before you could say “THIS IS A MEDICAL EXAMINATION! STOP EATING THAT CHEESECAKE!”.

During the crazy people social soiree, Roderick is encouraged by Dr. C to get every available appendage he can up Nurse Smith’s very short uniform skirt. Hey, getting turned down by trim doesn’t mean you can’t encourage your fellow phallus holder to have a try! Bro code… or some horseshit. Anyway, Mr. Usher is then accosted by a pair of his fellow inmates that are heavy on a hippie astrology kick, asking him if he’s into “Ass-trology”, which I assure you that I certainly am. They allude to Miss ABC’s past interactions with a group called “The West Side Boys” which, from their intonations, presumably refers to some fucked up tribulations. More specifically, the ones spelled G-A-N-G-R-A-P-E.

No, not “gan grape” you nards! I meant “gang rape”. She had her flower forcibly plucked by a vulgar group of ne’er-do-wells with more testosterone than social grace. At least as far as I can infer. The later reveal that her entire erotic demeanor is made up of literal artificial bits and pieces (including that “great piece of ass!”) to disguise whatever shapeless horror she really is, postulates clearly that her outer self is a deceptive shell to hide the fragile truth beneath. Some obvious symbolism for Uncle Ken to waterboard us with. It’s an interesting visual representation, but is smashed so hard into our faces that it’s like being talked down to by a tech support rep that makes you wanna reach through the phone and elbow them in the throat.

I don’t do great with “message movies”. Unless they involve people getting run over en masse.

While Nursey Poo and The Rod explore their blossoming relationship, Dr. C uses the astrologist gals (one of whom is your typical old gypsy lady, while the other is a minstrel mummy… let that sink in) in an effort to Ouija up the soul of the slain Annabelle Lee and get the story of her demise straight from the victim’s protoplasmic mouth. Unable to establish a direct connection to the lass, they do manage to summon OSIRIS(!!!) instead, who speaks to them through the sacred vessel of… a Big Mouth Billy Bass.

Okay. This part got me. A surprise kidney punch of happiness I wasn't prepared for that left me on the floor with upturned lips ever so slightly trembling. This leads to a riddle that leads to a vibrating slinky version of those “weasel chasing a ball” toys that finally leads to the gypsy character divining that the question to the answer “The reveal of Annabelle Lee's true killer” is “What's the secret of her bones?”. Man, trying to force gags into a ‘Jeopardy!’ shaped mold requires mental gymnastics that my caffeine fueled cortex can’t fucking handle right now. This leads to Calahari sending his masked henchman Igor to retrieve Ann’s pearlies from her gravesite.

Taking a break from all story progress, Dr. Cal takes a scenic route scene to gloat to Roderick about his prized experiment – having hypnotized (via several props acquired from a Spencer’s Gifts clearance sale) a previous patient/guinea pig named Ernest Valdemar (Peter Mastin) in the midst of the man’s death throes, allowing Ernie’s mind to continue living indefinitely and communicating through a voice amplification box despite the death of the rest of his body… except for the part about how his jaw and eyes are still functional, and the other part about how THE BRAIN CANNOT SURVIVE WITHOUT BLOOD FLOW OR OXYGEN. Unfortunately, despite Mr. V’s predicament being an interesting piece about a person buried alive in the grave of his own corpse for 7 months, this bit of sidetrack has zilch to do with Rod’s tale and only serves as a *wink*wink*nudge*nudge* to EAP readers that reeks of time filler.

Sick Destro cosplay, bro!

Speaking of filler, the next segment takes the same theme, makes like a looter with a new TV and runs with it. Calahari has a therapy session with a woman hidden behind a mask who has some weird psycho-sexual fear of garden gnomes. Through his mania-delving analysis, the doc helps her realize she's actually famed femme fatale female wrestler, Beulah Von Birmingham (Sandra Scott)! Her revelation is interrupted when a masked prostitute named Mary (Mrs. Russell again) inserts herself into the scenario, declaring herself a birthday present to Roderick from his big sister… while ironically being played by the same woman who plays his big sister. Beulah recognizes her as one of her wrestling rivals though, and the pair have a no holds barred hardcore brawl for supremacy! It degrades into the two just dry humping each other before the silliness subsides prematurely with the pair escaping over a wall via convenient step ladder, to the chagrin of Calahari who planned to imprison the pair in his crazy house. Again, fun random bit of wackiness, but also again, entirely disconnected from having anything to do with advancing the damn story!

Wait a sec… Whoa. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? I establish this review on the basis of its creator’s surname being a pun on the word “wrestle”, and ultimately there’s a scene of female wrestlers doing just that. The hypothesis of my subconscious being an astral projected time traveler while I sleep gains more and more traction. Nanoo fucking nannoo.

When Igor returns with the disinterred dentures of a dozen or so Ushers buried in the same boneyard (or, purchased from a gumball machine outside the corner deli as the case more likely is), Annabelle’s rise from the collection and hint at Poe’s short story ‘The Murders at the Rue Morgue’ as being the key to unlocking what really happened to her. Cal deciphers this as meaning Rod’s wife was actually murdered by a gorilla, but before he can question this logic further he’s called away to Valdemar’s room, where his pet zombie finally gives up the ghost. As if that weren’t enough to upset the bloated old goat, the institute’s previous staff, which the doctor had apparently imprisoned in the asylum’s basement for challenging his “revolutionary methods”, have somehow escaped (or at least the two members we’re ever privy to) and are wilding throughout the building in pursuit of revenge! Less the “pee in the communal coffee pot at work” type and more the “Carrie White on prom night” version.

Roddy, herr doktor, the old gypsy (now wearing a tea cozy on her head) and the blackface mummy lady escape the hospital with all limbs intact, returning to the Usher Estate. Once there, ‘Ricky discovers beloved sister Madeline dead at her own hand on what looks to be a teenage girl’s bed, amid some topless statues in the yard. Seems the “fake news” media reported that her brother had died in the sanitarium riot and the resultant grief with which she was overtaken pushed her to Romeo & Juliet herself, leaving behind a recorded confession (played for them by a crimson faced gorilla) that she was the one who prematurely punched Sweet Annabelle Lee’s mortality ticket! In the thralls of his own heartbreak, little brother Usher demands Death take him too, to which Dr. C relinquishes with an injection of something lethal. The duo are laid in state in their yard, surrounded by potted flowers probably taken from the dumpster behind the WalMart Garden Center.

With 15 minutes left in the movie, the aforementioned gorilla gather the remaining trio of guests in the siblings’ old childhood playhouse to view a VHS tape (played in a microwave for laughs). The vid is a further confession by Mad Maddie, telling of how she used Gory (the gorilla) to kill Annabelle with an obedience chip that the family had planted in the hulking simian’s brain after the poor brute was rescued from an abusive trainer. Thanks to an off-brand Playstation 2 controller, Mads maliciously manipulated the monkey into murdering her only rival for her dear brother’s dingus. From here it’s all about wrapping shit up, as Calahari is captured and returned to the asylum to undergo treatment, Nurse ABC is fine (except for an unexplained hand crushing incident in the end), Roderick and Madeline’s souls descend to hell on a righteous deflating bouncy castle, and their son and daughter prepare to move back into their family home with Gory now that everyone else has been driven away… I’m not going to explain anything from that last sentence, as I’ll leave it up to your own minds to fill in the blanks that, well, we’re never given anyway.

Unless Russell’s next of kin have some 2-4-5 Trioxin laying around, I’m pretty sure this is the end.

And there it is: Ken Russell’s final feature, The Fall of the Louse of Usher. Though greatly hampered by its poor choice of medium and “let’s just use what we’ve got lying around our houses!” budget, there’s actually a lot of entertainment to be had. The sound quality isn’t great, sometimes even bordering on horrible as it makes certain scenes almost completely auditorially illegible, with the worst being a stair well exchange that’s nothing but shouty echoes. Speaking of noise, one of my least liked parts of this cacophony of crazy are the awful little music videos that Rod and Mad made for their band, not the least bothersome of which involves the siblings being all “anguished high school goth kids” (well into their thirties/forties) with each other in a cemetery, dragging numerous visual aids about their incest relationship across our faces where, like the scrotum intimation I’m trying to make here, none were needed.

The cast is actually pretty solid for a buncha no-names. Not everyone, mind you, but our top-of-the-credits trio – Johnston, Findley & Mr. Russell – all make this a much more pleasant pill to swallow. Their characters are entertaining if not always interesting and their performances are appropriately campy without going overboard. Broken heart throb Roderick is well lost in the forest of confusion and desperate to find his way out; Nurse ABC carries a sensuality, charm and foreboding smile reminiscent of Cassandra Peterson’s beloved Elvira or a mash-up of Rocky Horror’s Columbia & Magenta; and Doc Calahari is a kooky crackpot who’s really a lot of fun to watch when you warm up to him, even in spite of Russell’s absurd German-ish accent, which grows on you if your ears don’t revolt against you first.

If you’re a Poe nerd, or have a Poe nerd in your life, you’ll enjoy picking out Louse‘s varied variety of references to the godfather of goth’s library of extensive materials. Some are obvious, some are a bit more obscure, and still others I’m sure I missed entirely because I’m barely acquainted with the chronically depressed fiveheaded oddball’s greatest hits, let alone his deep cut ditties. If what I’ve heard was true, Louse of Usher is a much better homage to Eddie Allan’s efforts than 2012’s The Raven, so again, consider it for the Poephile in your presence. And don’t you worry John Cusack, I’ll be kicking down your door sooner or later with crackling criticisms to burn your nose hair by!

The “gothic tale for the 21st century” has great potential that peeks out from behind its discounted Halloween seasonal mall shop props and modified tool shed sets, and with a little bit of script tampering and an injection of capital, I think, sans hyperbole, that TFotLoU could have easily been another Rocky Horror! Hell, with a Kickstarter campaign and some talented hands, it could still be. It’s as likely as Hulk Hogan playing the dad in a(nother) remake of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, but it’s fun to think of what could have been. Speaking of what could have been…

Hey! I finally made it to episode 100! It only took me… gimme a sec here…

Three and a half years. Shit. That’s an average of 2-3 reviews per month. Double shit. Billy Bass Osiris damn me and whatever wacky fantasy scenario I’m using today to stunt double for my real life personal hindrances. Oh well. I’ve got a pot of chili and a copy of Cannibal Killer Clowns on Dope calling my name with their siren song, so let’s hurry this up and just say it’s a case of quality over quantity.

Moral of the Story: If you ever want to get out of a mental institute alive, never question the sanity of the staff.

On the topic of superior quality, go treat yourself to some more RussellMania from our fellow Zeroes!

Checkpoint Telstar summons The Devils

Cinemasochist Apocalypse goes all Gothic

Micro-Brewed Reviews experiments with Altered States

The Terrible Claw Reviews excavates The Lair of the White Worm

Web of the Big Damn Spider courts The Boy Friend


I envision a lawsuit by the Estate of Edgar Allan Poe against the Estate of Ken Russell as presided over by the Estate of Judge Wopner here, in ‘The Dead Peoples’ Court’.

See, shit like that is why you’ll never get me within a mile of a LASIK office!

“I have to say, when my wife said she’d gotten me that reverse-gangbang I’d always wanted for my birthday, I wasn’t expecting… well… this. Oh well, let’s make the best of it, girls!”

Yes, kids, Ken Russell as a literal dick nose.

Scary Movie prop mask purchased from Marlon Wayans’ “Fund the next A Haunted House sequel” yard sale.

The New Slash Co. Mark 12 collection of knives! They’ll cut through shoe leather, a soda can and a full-sized rhinoceros, and STILL sever a human head like it were a ripe tomato without a single sharpening! I’d buy that for a dollar!

What? You’ve never been to a white trash Eyes Wide Shut party before?

My sex shed is way nicer than theirs!

“With the Psychic Readers Network, you can get in touch with the Egyptian gods for advice on life, love, and lucky lottery numbers for just $2.99 per minute! Call me NOW!”

Saint Polident – the Patron Saint of Denture Cleansers and veteran of the 100 Years Crusade against the kingdom of the Cavity Creeps.

And this is why I never trust elderly women in lingerie who ask me if I want to “smell their flower”.

A scene from Annie Sprinkle’s long-since-banned educational video for elementary school children on how bees pollinate flowers.

My attempts at bringing my own Frankensteinian meatloaf man to life didn’t go as I had hoped… at least he made for some delicious leftovers!

The only surviving still from a proposed 1992 reboot of Planet of the Apes that, I think we can all agree, would have probably been too awesomely reprehensible for this world anyway.

Alright! The Better Homes and Gardens annual “DIY Funerary Displays on a Budget” issue is out! They printed my article in this one!

In 1997, Nintendo introduced the first “rumble” function for video game controllers, causing them to vibrate as a form of sensory feedback for players to help increase their immersion in the games. 20 years after the introduction of vibrating controllers, females now make up nearly 50% of video gamers. Coincidence? My eye.


Anubis will return next time in
“Guess Who’s Dying at Dinner”

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All materials found within this review are the intellectual properties and opinions of the original writer. The Tomb of Anubis claims no responsibility for the views expressed in this review, but we do lay a copyright claim on it beeyotch, so don’t steal from this shit or we’ll have to go all Farmer Vincent on your silly asses. © October 1st 2013 and beyond, not to be reproduced in any way without the express written consent of the reviewer and The Tomb of Anubis, or pain of a physical and legal nature will follow. Touch not lest ye be touched.


Episode 15 – Krampus: the Christmas Devil (2013)

or “May Krampus Never Cramp Us”


Featuring: A.J. “The Four” Leslie , Bill “Abraham Lincoln vs. Zombies” Oberst Jr. , Richard “Professional uncredited movie extra” Goteri

Director & Writer: Jason “Chasing Darkness” Hull

Origin: USA


Time is short, and the naughties must be PUNISHED!”

 Well, I’m sorry to tell everybody this, but January and February are apparently canceled for 2014. I bought myself a Marvel Heroes calender at the Emporium of Savings for $1, and opened it up to discover that 2014 actually starts with March. Though this means Spring will be early, it also means that we won’t be celebrating Washington and Lincoln’s birthdays with discounted mattresses, nor will we be forced to buy our significant others’ senseless idols of emotional intent for Valentine’s Day, nor will we need to respect the African-American community for Black History Month. Then again, maybe my calender was just defaced by a heartbroken white supremacist with a hatred for elected officials? Or, maybe I’m being punished for my misdeeds of the last year. What misdeeds? Well, for starters, this review was supposed to be done in time for Cthulhumas! Oh well, for anybody who didn’t get what they wanted for the holidays, here’s your chance to live through the disappointment of the season all over again! Maybe this disappointment is courtesy of the original holiday disciplinarian, Krampus!

I learned of today’s movie during my review for Saint Nick in episode 11. Much like Cthulhu before him, the holiday hellbeast myth of Krampus has been getting a lot more mainstream exposure in recent years, being the subject of various TV show Christmas specials like “The Venture Bros.”, “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, “Suburgatory” and just last month on “Grimm” and “American Dad”. Given that various sinister shapes of Santa Claus have been given the movie treatment this millennium, I thought for sure that someone had to have given the penance fiend and child abuse factory known as Krampus a creature feature! Though I found references on the internet base of movie datas for a few shorts focused on ol’ Special K, the only long-in-the-dong running time entry I could exhume was this independent flick filmed in the wilds of East Bumfuck, Pennsyltucky. So hyped was I for such a find (and because it’s so obscure that I couldn’t find it on any of the torrent sites…), I immediately made my way to the movie’s website, slapped down my $15 for a copy, and awaited what would either be an amazing triumph of the human will, or the mad creation of a bloodthirsty despot-to-be like Triumph of the Will… or could very feasibly fall anywhere in between these two extreme (or, if this were the ’90s, “x-treme”) extremes of extreme extremism… EXTREEEEEEEEEEEEME! Anyway, after sitting on it for almost a month and missing my Cthulhumas review deadline with the “couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a bazooka” scheduling accuracy I’m well known for, the time has arrived. Now, let us all share our collective punishment for being bad boys and girls by watching Krampus: the Christmas Devil… and to all you bad girls out there, I’ll be doling out your mandatory spankings after the show. I suggest warming your butts ahead of time, cuz 50 lashes on cold asses sting like a beard of butthurt bees… hurtin’ your butt… cuz they’re bees… you get the idea.

If you’re unfamiliar with the legend of Krampus, I’m not a tutor. Not anymore. Certain “allegations” of “misconduct” and “abuses of power” got my “license” “revoked” for the foreseeable “century”. Now, just imagine me dressed like Chris Farley’s Bennett Brauer character while tossing up air quotes for those parentheticals and that last line might be funny. You know what would’ve been funny? An SNL movie where Chris Farley dual roled as Bennett Brauer and Matt Foley. Even if it somehow turned out worse than Beverly Hills Ninjas, it still would’ve been a few hundred times funnier than Jack and Jill or Norbit… sidetracks about NOTHING RELATED aside, if you need an intro/refresher on the patron saint of ass lashing, just wiki dat shit right here.

The version of Krampy in today’s movie is portrayed as not merely the unholy antithesis of Saint Nicholas, but as the jolly red meat sack’s twisted monstrous brother! Sadly, there’s no origin story to explain who these brothers are, how they came to be, or why Kramps sports cloven hooves and a face that looks like a big animal skull-turned-underground art piece, because that would’ve been a way better focus for the movie given the big guy’s name is the friggin’ title. As our opening narration, uhm, narrates, Krampus travels the world every December kidnapping bad children and murdering them for their misdeeds. I don’t mean kids who don’t wash their hands after they use the toilet or who swipe from the cookie jar (though putting your hands in the cookie jar after having not washed your hands after using the crapper is a killable offense), but the REALLY fucked up little punks whose obituary bullet-points will be about how they killed their parents and burned down retirement homes in their spare time.

Krampus has to complete his appointed terror tasks by 11:59pm on Christmas Eve though, cuz once those clock hands cross, he’s back on unemployment till next December. Union rules. One such candidate for comeupance in the bygone year of 1900 and 83 was little Jeremy Duffin, whom Krampy ‘napped while the boy waited for his school bus. Wrapped in a sack, dumped in a frozen pond, and left to drown, Jer managed to squirm free and wander through the woods back to his house before turning into a hypothermia flavored kid-sicle. He would grow up to be a healthy, sane, perfectly adjusted adult male with a family who love him. End of story.

Okay, the “adult male with a family who love him” part is the only truth to that statement. Jer (A.J. Leslie) actually ended up becoming a PTSD ravaged police detective obsessed with hunting down the murderous monster that nearly denied him the tortured life he would grow into. Cuz, who wouldn’t want to spend every night after work drinking yourself ugly and having single player games of Russian Rhoulette? Not because it’s depressing and life threatening, but because it’s so fucking cliché! Besides, the hard boiled types that end up with a scotch on the rocks in one hand and a single-rounded handgun in the other don’t have nice things like a loving family. Everyone they know is either dead or left them because of their insane depression (i.e. alcoholism) and self-destructive ways. Don’t worry though, as this sure as shit isn’t the only time writer/director Jason Hull (who also credits himself as both a Producer AND Executive Producer…) decides to needlessly shoehorn one of his favorite “monkey see, monkey do” story elements into his own production… and I use that term much in the same way that a stool sample is a “production”, in that it’s something that’s been produced… by your butt.

Okay, so operating on the idea that Kramps is real (and they are, just ask my WIFE! ZING!), then at what age do kids no longer need to fear him? I mean, he obviously doesn’t drown evil adults, otherwise overcrowded prisons wouldn’t be an issue. Just lock the fuckers up till December, send the guards home till January, then come back and start over again for next year. Easy peasy titty squeezy! Who decided that the 18 and older crowd are well enough off that we can just govern each other, but our kids require discipline from a hairy hellbeast with a tongue that would give Venom a run for the Gene Simmons King of Lickers Award?! Speaking of, who makes a Having a Krampus of our own to weed out the shitbags would definitely make life easier on the law abiding. Anyway, let us continue down this road paved with complaints.

It’s been 30 years since Jeremy escaped the frozen ebon clutches of yours truly, and the yuletide has taken a grim turn for a few families in the Podunk Eden of East Bumblefuck, Pennsyltucky. Or, as our hero and the rest of its citizens call it, Caimbridge. A new rash of missing children have sprung up, and while it means a very un-merry Christmas for some, it means a chance at violent, final vengeance for Det. Duffin!… okay, I need to break now for another aside: my biggest problem with small budget movies isn’t the lack of money. I can deal with the chinsy “made with common household items” special effects and actors who were never in a high school drama club let alone professional acting institutions and shitty generic garage metal soundtracks and opening credits sequences that look like the kind of half-assed self made DVD menus I used to whip up on Roxio Creator. What I can’t deal with are overreaching concepts. If the best locale you can afford to shoot your shit show in is a little town in the middle of nowhere, then go with a story that could take place in such a place – serial killer, escaped mental patient(s), shellshocked war vet drifter pushed too far by bloated asshole sheriff, crashed alien ship, marauding biker gang, top secret government science experiment gone wrong, cave of flesh eating evolutionary off-shoots stumbled upon by spelunking friends, haunted bed & breakfast, clandestine devil worshipers trying to summon their hoary horrorist master from within the walls of their black lodge, or just go with the classic standby – local Sasquatch. Hell, just watch a few episodes of Scooby-Doo and see if anything percolates! Fuck, if it’s an episode of “The Scooby-Doo Movies”, provided the special guest is still alive, they might even appear in your shitty knock-off for a plane ticket and a month’s prescription of painkillers! The point is, Krampus is sure to tell us that these cases of missing children show up every December all over the world. If Krampy’s a globetrotting terrorizer of youth, why would he EVER stop over in a dump like Caimbridge, where there aren’t enough people to warrant one owning a horse by which to call it a “one horse town”?!

In short (which, as you can see, I never adhere to), if all you can afford to shoot in is a minor village, don’t try to make it a major hub of the fucking global community.

Oh yeah, and when your movie’s antagonist is a worldwide threat, stop making the only person who can hope to defeat it a denizen of said small town! I get that it’s supposed to feel empowering to the Joe Six Packs in the audience to relate to the average shlub and inspire them to think they can do great things in their own lives (which Joe believes more so after the ingestion of a few of his namesake), but it’s so damn common anymore that it actually makes me pine, PINE, for the ’50s glory days when every cinematic Armageddon (or “cinemageddon”) left entire militaries impotent and could only be stopped by ruggedly handsome scientists declaring martial law and killing the threat with whatever box the writer hit with a dart on his Periodic Table of the Elements. You know what Krampus’s only weakness is? It’s… one sec… shit, missed it entirely… okay, it’s… *thunk*… Cobalt. Krampus will die if you stuff Cobalt up his butt in the light of a full moon. There. There’s your movie.

Jeremy (who spoke in class today *rimshot*) is convinced that Krampus has targeted Caimbridge for 2013, and is determined to put an end to the monster. I’m hoping Kramps is back to finish Jer off as punishment for the stupid douche bag soul patch he’s chosen to grow as a sign to those around him that he really has just given up on life. You know, in case the Russian Roulette and alcoholism weren’t sign enough. He has the support of his Captain (Richard Goteri) to put together a small task force to scour the woods around the local lake and hunt the beast down in the hopes of saving the missing brats. Cap either believes Duff (not to be confused with “Düff, from Sweden…”), or just goes along with the loony’s tale because he was close buddies with Jer’s old man (who was also a cop before his own untimely death), so he tells our tormented hero to get his team together and go kill a mythical creature!… worst police captain ever. Jer’s dynamic backup duo in this Destiny’s Child of destruction are Bob Norris (former Hell’s Angel and author Jay Dobyns) and John Walker (played by Jeremy Sidun and, sadly, not just a big debonaire bottle of Scotch Whiskey with a fake beard glued to it). John is the fat, bald, bearded Michelle Williams of the trio – completely forgettable and destined to die cold and alone. As for Bob, he’s the Kelly Rowland to Jer’s Beyonce Knowles, also shares his partners’ penchant for head shaving and facial hair, and knows that, despite the vast wealth our hero has sitting in the bank (inherited from his dad, who inherited it from Grandpa Duffin), Jer chose to be a cop to help people and isn’t “in it for the money”… well NO SHIT! The only time you become a cop for the cash is when your goal is to be one of those big city crooked cops in the back pocket of organized crime! Small town cops are in it for the free drugs and beer seized from high school keggers, and the occasional bj from the toothless strippers who work street corners on weeknights hooking for rent and baby formula. But, again, Jason Hull feels the need to shoehorn all of his favorite characters (*cough*caricatures*cough*) into his movie, so not only is Jeremy the tortured, hard-boiled, suicide case, not only does he have a lifelong vendetta to accomplish, and not only is he following in his father’s dead cop footsteps, but he’s ALSO the secret rich guy whose heart is just as golden as his bank account, and thus chooses to risk his life to make the world a better place for everyone else rather than sit around doing rich guy until he dies of a cocaine overdose in bed with half a dozen Maxim cover girls! If we get anymore scenes of needless protagonist background padding, we’ll discover that Jeremy’s also been stalking Caimbridge’s deviant criminal underworld in his off-hours as the mysterious masked vigilante known only as THE NEIGHBORHOOD WATCHMAN! Jeezus Kryst riding naked on a giant fiberglass banana…

While our threesome of bald headed, chin furred law enforcement officials lay asleep in their beds, resting off the night’s boozing before their big Kramp hunt, their prey gets a visit from brother Claus, who came all the way to Pennsyltucky from the friggin’ North Pole just to tell goat legs about adjustments to this year’s Naughty List. I’ll get this out of the way now – this rendition of Santa is less a “right jolly old elf”, and more like the President of the Santas of Anarchy motorcycle club. He’s got long white hair and a beard, sure, but both are “serious business” straight, not cottony fluffs of merriment. He’s got the red outfit, and though it’s not a leather jacket and chaps, it’s still not the velvety ensemble of the Christopher Kringle we’ve been told of since childhood. Also, whereas traditional Santa smokes a tobacco pipe with which he wreathes his head in smoke and fills his bulbous torso with cookies and milk, Krampus’s bro looks like his pipe’s full of meth and his gut’s full of cheap beer and various pickled food stuffs like eggs and tube meat. To go with the biker look, he’s also a total hard-ass PSYCHO! He’s fucking crazy! He acts like Scarface, or Toecutter, or Jack Nicholson… I was gonna say Jack Nicholson’s character in The Departed, but I think old Jack himself is just as good a description.

Anyway, since mythical creatures like Santa and Krampus are devoid of a more convenient method of communication like cell phones, Nick traversed a good 3500-4000 MILES for a 30 second face-to-face about who gets highest whacking priority. For me, Aubrey Plaza currently has highest whacking priority, hands down… then up… then back down again… repeating until climax. Hubba hubba!

Okay, got another detour in the road here for ya, folks. Now, Santa and Krampus are supposed to be brothers. Fine. They’re both immortals who never age. Fine again. We can assume that Santa has some kind of mystical powers, given that he’ll travel half way across the Northern Hemisphere for a half-minute conversation, let alone that whole “presents to every good kid that celebrates his holiday in one night” thing. We can also assume he’s got some kinda polar voodoo powers that allow him to pull his invisible man act and avoid all form of surveillance, AND keep track of the karma for every child on the planet, or at least, again, the ones who celebrate his holiday. In light of all of this, how is it that Krampy got the shortest of all possible short ends on the whole “super powers” stick?! He has no connection to the collective spiritual realm of the populace (since Santa has to play manager and pop down to update the Naughty List FOR him), he can’t turn invisible (since he’s seen by EVERYBODY he comes across), and instead of turning into smoke or a swarm of spiders or some such coolness so he can slip into kids’ houses and snatch them from their beds, Krampy has to wait until they’re outdoors and alone before tossing a potato sack over them and absconding like a bank robber in a striped shirt and bandit mask holding one of those fucking bags with the dollar sign drawn on it! Then he has to dump the kids into the nearest body of water to drown them. If the water’s frozen over? I doubt he can melt it with firebreath or even hot charcoal briquet oral projectiles like Megalon. He probably has a rusty pickax or an old spade with a busted handle wrapped in duct tape that he has to use to manually break up the ice enough to stuff the kid through. And if someone catches the creature in-the-act? Krampy knocks them out with his length of rusty chain… this really is a horror movie made by and for bikers. He’s not completely devoid of magical powers though. He does have the abilities to move fast and to shoot little electrical impulses from his fingers that cause a sensation in his victims not unlike giving them Ecstasy… because the guy responsible for PUNISHING the bad kids should have the ability to instill EUPHORIA?! My eyes are starting to cross…

I’ll address the latter of these two magical gifts later, but for now, allow me to explain why Kramp’s other power is of note – it’s fucking HILARIOUS to see in action. You know that cool little jumpy-jerky “teleportation” visual effect a lot of movies have these days that show the monster/ghost/alien kinda shifting through reality in quick steps? I’m pretty sure that’s what Hull wanted Krampy to have here. I can get behind that. I love that effect. It was one of the standout points of the House on Haunted Hill remake watching evil ghost Jeffrey Combs doing it. I’m guessing they didn’t have the tech and/or know how to make that visual a reality for this little project, so instead they just put these scenes of Krampus into fast forward… and it just looks like he escaped a fucking Benny Hill chase sequence, minus the wacky music and women in their underwear… ARGH! I just put a lit cigar out on my left testicle to keep from flipping my desk, lighting my computer on fire, and just walking away from this bullshit right now! Don’t worry, ladies. If any of you still want to carry my jackal headed offspring, I’ve got 20 plastic gallon milk jugs brimming with my semen in a refrigerated storage locker in the basement of the University of Dubuque in case of movies like this where severe genital mutilation are always a risk. However, all pups spawned from the unholy gestation of my seed in your cursed wombs must be named “Abobo Bowen” as part of the contract. Don’t ask why. It’s a lot of red tape involving cosmic prophecies and the end of man. Nothing you’d be interested in… JUST ACCEPT MY SPERM!

Wow, almost 4,000 words in and I’m not even halfway through the review. Shit. This is gonna be a marathoner. Hope you stretched before we started. Well, back to the grindstone.

Armed with tactical automatic rifles and decked out in arctic camouflage (the purpose of which is kinda defeated when you wear black pants, black hats, and black flak jackets OVER THE CAMO), the trio sets out the next morning on their hunt, doing all those military hand gestures and sticking way too close to each other to effectively comb an area the size of which they’re investigating. I see three guys who play way too much Call of Duty… It’s not long before they see somebody in a long black robe that they assume to be Krampus, but that assumption is enough proof for them to bypass police protocol like telling him to freeze or identify himself first, so they just open fire on the guy with a few dozen rounds! To further sandpaper my nipples, the gunfire is completely muted and instead replaced with a few seconds of generic metal music… if they had to use paintball guns or silence the rifles so as not to startle unsuspecting neighbors while shooting the scene, they could’ve at least used actual gunfire sound effects over the muting. Hell, they do it later on when someone’s pretending to fire an uzi, so why not do so here?! WHY THE METAL MUSIC?! ARGGGGH!… well great, there goes my other testicle…. sheesh.

Because I haven’t had enough metaphorical salt poured into my metaphorical eyes or metaphorical toothpicks jammed under my metaphorical toenails (metaphorically speaking), when the shadowy figure escapes the hail of bullets, the trio don’t immediately pursue like you’d imagine they should. I’ll have to slap your hand with The Disciplinarian now (a wooden ruler with thumbtacks taped to its surface) as punishment for your flagrant use of common sense. Instead, the guys hang out for a minute or two talking about what just happened, reload their guns (because, much like the old Resident Evil games, they apparently can’t reload or shoot while moving), then casually pursue as is convenient for them… NOW they opt to split up, allowing Krampy to take them each out with his magical beatin’ chain. He takes Bob and Jeremy back to his nearby lair (funny how a bunch of kids go missing in the area and nobody thinks to search the local transient cave…), but stomps Johnny’s big fat head in with his hoof, because he probably didn’t wanna risk his scoliosis dragging SuperChunk around the woods. Back at the cave, Kramps tears out Bobby’s heart (he dragged him all the way back just to kill him anyway!?), which looks like a bright red rubber children’s toy upon removal, then oozes out of his fist like that pink slime garbage they put in the ground beef for school lunches when he “crushes” it. I guess Hull missed that day in biology where they taught you that the heart is a large organ made of very densely fibrous muscle and not just a cheap stress ball full of strawberry Jell-O.

Since Krampus couldn’t be bothered to actually restrain Duffin in any way, the hero regains consciousness and escapes. Rather than give chase, the villain’s too busy raping a topless blond woman he has chained up in his drifter den. Yep, you read that right. Go back and read it again if you need to. Now, just who this unlucky lady is is never made clear. She’s just there. She screams and writhes and struggles, so I’m assuming she’s not the type of freaky dame into that weird ass kink like the kind I usually entertain in the Tomb’s own sex dungeon every other Thursday. I’m not sure if she’s there for Krampus to punish with this rape, but if she is, the punishment’s pretty shitty since he zaps her eyeballs with his previously mentioned Spanish Fly powers and turns her on like a vibrating fleshlight. If she’s going to enjoy the rape, it’s hardly punishment, right? I mean, women do have the capacity to enjoy sex, right? I’ve been with the Evil Dead Bride for almost a decade and a half, so I hope she hasn’t just been faking it all this time.

This leads us to detour #37 on our journey – who exactly is Krampus supposed to exact righteous vengeance on? In the opening (and pretty much every myth about the monster), it says that Krampus punishes bad children. Let’s just go by the legal definition here in the US that anyone under the age of 18 is not an adult, so we’ll include teens and infants in this whole “children” argument. Now, killing two of the men who attacked him first, I can understand Krampus getting away with that on either a “self defense” plea, or because their escape would mean others finding out about him and his hobo habitat. Fine. But, unless the roofied rape victim chained to his wall is supposed to be underage (in which case I may have to dispose of this disc before it can be used against me in a court of law), this scene would mean that Krampus is also responsible for the punishment of bad adults… which would make no sense, as I discussed earlier! On top of all that (no sexual assault pun intended there, honest), once he’s done with the girl, Brother Claus shows up again release the dame back into the wild (complete with an “And have a merry Christmas!” send off) to chastise Krampy, not for raping the girl, but because “play time was 2 days ago”… meaning that this rape is his extra-curricular activity?! Is Krampus drowning boys and raping girls, drowning all children and raping teens, or has he upgraded to adults and is raping them now too!? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO ME, JASON HULL!? You’re shitting on continuity harder than fucking Jason TODD!… a completely wasted joke unless you read DC Comics around 2005 and saw that whole “Superboy-Prime throws a fit and punches reality’s butt” bullshit from Infinite Crisis that single handedly gave Marvel Comics the win in the “I don’t read DC Comics because they’re retarded” argument. Gwen Stacey having Norman Osborn’s statutory rape babies? Nothing compared to “Superbody-Prime FISTED REALITY”.

Okay, keep it together Anubis. You’ve survived Demonicus. Keep repeating, “It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie…” Alright, so Jeremy escapes back to his truck and drives to the police station, where the Captain takes his badge and gun. Not because he thinks our hero’s lost his mind and is a danger to the public, but just because. I thought that this was going to be an obvious setup for someone to steal both and frame Duffin for all the child murders (possibly even the Captain himself for some nefarious reasoning), but no, NOTHING HAPPENS to the badge and gun. Cap just tells him to go take a shower, cool off at the local bar, and they’ll investigate Kramp’s murder hole… maybe later? I mean, two of this guy’s men were just killed, but rather than mobilizing more officers to go out and investigate the murdered cops, he sends Jer off to clean up and go to the bar for a few drinks?! HOW MANY ANEURISMS MUST ONE MAN-DOG SUFFER BEFORE HE CAN ENJOY DEATH’S SWEET EMBRACE?!… oh… right…………. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

You know what would’ve been great? If, while recuping at the bar, Jeremy looked over to a bottle of Johnny Walker, put on his best/worst Anakin, and just screamed “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” to the heavens. But my job isn’t to write movies and make them better, my job is to sit here and watch garbage that other people have no place making and write about them after the fact, because I apparently kicked old ladies off of cliffs in my past life. Fuck. Anyway, as he’s throwing back shots to numb the pain of his dead friends from the Hairless Club for Men (WHO HE’S NOT OUT TRYING TO AVENGE!), our hero gets a call from his angry wife who found out about Jer’s fatal hunting trip not from him, but from the world’s shittiest newscast. Seriously, that fucking report made even the crappiest episode of “Action News for Kids” look like the best produced episode of “Dateline”. That shows you how much Jer gives a crap about his family when he ends up at the verge of death from some mythical goat man demon, and the first person he wants to see after showering his friends’ gore of his face is… his bartender. Uggh. Still hanging out at the bar rather than going home to his family, Detective Duff is approached by a trio of fellow cops who aren’t too happy about him getting Norris and Walker (Get it? Chuck NORRIS was WALKER, Texas Ranger. At least, I hope this was Hull showing some kinda creativity.) corpsed. These must be the kind of cops who are just in it for the money though, otherwise they’d be going out to the FUCKING LAKE TO KILL FUCKING KRAMPUS! Is Caimbridge the only hicksville burg in the country where drunken posses aren’t a thing that happens every time a heinous crime is committed?! The only real justice is mob justice! No, instead these dipshits would rather dog pile on Duffin, threaten to force their hot dogs in both his AND his wife’s chocolate starfish, and engage in the WORST BAR FIGHT EVER FILMED! How “worst”? Not an ounce of hyperbole there. Take the crappiest round of William Shatner fisticuffs ever seen on an episode of “Star Trek”, and it would look like the greatest brawl ballet of the most perfectly made Jackie Chan “beat up thirty guys with everything in the room” choreography after watching the bar fight from Krampus

I’m running out of hate for this movie. There’s just so much of it, and my rageahol is actually starting to run dry here. I feel my agner sputtering to a miserable halt and… I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do for the rest of this review! There’s still SO MUCH blood that needs to be spilled on this trash carnival… 5000 words in, and it’s STILL not enough bitching and moaning and self-abuse to get across ALL of the incompitent, stupid, HORRIBLY written, toe-sucking SHIT on display here… it’s an ineptitude event horizon creating an stupidiocy vaccuum – a black hole of cinemasochism that’s inhaled every ounce of tolerance I can muster… Even going into the movie with a love for Krampus and incredibly low expectations… even forgiving it ahead of time for what was sure to be a poor effort… all of these caveates that I put forward, and Jason Hull STILL manages to vomit up a repugnant script the likes of which has left a stain on my soul I will never be able to remove. Weep for me, children. Weep long into the darkness of night for the heart that was broken and scarred here today…

Alright, taking the shortcuts for the rest of this fecal field trip to Grandma Suck’s house. Nearly publicly butt humped by his disgruntled co-workers in the fight, Jer’s saved by the Captain, who arrives just in time to send Duffin home while he and the bartender (a former beat cop himself) beat the rape happy officer with a baseball bat… and kill him and his two cohorts if the end credits epilogue is to be believed… because police captains are all about mafia justice, killing insubordinates, disposing of the bodies, then just hiring new cops and giving public service announcements to anyone who asks questions about how unhealthy it is for people to ask questions.

While this whole stupid bar scene was happening, the Duffin house was being home invaded by a trio of ne’er-do-wells (lots of people in groups of three in this movie…) – two nameless rednecks and their leader: a bank robber/kidnapper/rapist/jaywalker named Brian Hatt (Bill Oberst Jr.) who’s out of prison thanks to his blanket “scumbag lawyer” on one of those nebulous “technicalities” that movies like to use but never explain, because that would require dipping into the budget for a law consultant… or doing a quick internet search…

You can’t just have Hatt terrorize Jer’s wife Rebecca and their daughter Heather though, because Jason Hull has seen Real Killers or Last House on the Left or any of those other movies where the murderous gang picks the wrong family to terrorize, and decided to make Heather (who could be anything from 16 to 26, I’m not good with guessing ages… thank Osiris for state issued photo id cards!) a secret serial killer who seduces one of the thugs and stabs him to death… and don’t jump up my ass about spoilers on that little twist, because not 10 minutes before it happens, HULL RUINS THE TWIST HIMSELF BY HAVING SANTA FLAT OUT TELL KRAMPUS THAT HEATHER DUFFIN IS A SERIAL KILLER! Sure, seasoned vets of horror flicks like myself (and I’m sure many of you reading this) probably wouldn’t have been all that shocked by a surprise like that, but Hull doesn’t even give us the chance! It’s like he knows it’s a stupid idea and wanted to avoid people being able to say “Oh yeah, I saw that coming a mile away!”, so he just went scorched earth all over the fucking thing and ruined the surprise ahead of time himself rather than rewrite it.

Home stretch now, folks. Kramps and Jer show up at the house at the same time – K to claim Heather and J to makes sure his daughter (who he doesn’t know has been murdering people in her spare time) is at least safe until midnight. Hatt winds up Kramp’d (after trying to shoot skull face with his uzi), Hatt’s remaining redneck partner ends up getting third-eye blinded by Jer’s gun (didn’t the Captain take that from him earlier?), and our hero ends up bonked on his coconut for the second time today by K-Fed’s chain. When we comes to he finds Heather missing… and Rebecca strangled to death by a length of chain?! What the fuck did she do now!? You know what? Fuck it. I’m done here. I’m not adding to my blood pressure anymore, nor to my count of gruesome burn scars below the belt. Even ignoring all of the amateur camera work, poor cinematography, crap-ass musica generica, miserable acting, and dollar store special effects work, Hull’s writing is such a gods damned shartnado that there’s nothing left to excuse! The only saving grace is that pretty much no one will ever see Krampus: the Christmas Devil. It will smolder in obscurity, its final fading embers doused in a golden shower of its creator’s own incompetence, forever extinguished and never heard from again. Sorry Krampy. Maybe someday someone will do your legend justice. Jason Hull just is not that person… and you should probably hit him with a chain.

The Moral of the Story:
“There’s nothing that any of us can ever do to bring those dead babies back!”
(PS – Krampus doesn’t kill babies. Babies don’t do anything bad to deserve punishment. They just mindlessly scream and cry and shit themselves. They’re not evil, they’re chaotic neutral.)

Are they a movie studio or a snowmobile detailing shop? Maybe both.

Oh sure, they make Krampus put on clothes around children now, but Porky Pig is still running around with his asshole hanging out!

“I know they say sex dreams aren’t about being turned on by the person, but all these George Wendt fantasies I’ve been having must mean something!”

“As you can see, I’ve drawn what looks to be a booby on the map. Boop. Boop. Booooooop. Come on, touch it! It’s fun!”

I hope they’re done shooting his scenes early. He’s got auditions at the “Grimm” sound stage to try out for Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Humpty Dumpty.

I know it’s incredibly blurry, but do you think that’s enough for Mark Zuckerberg to sue and have this movie legally blocked from ever getting a distribution deal!?

“So the lady at the CVS was like, ‘Sir, I don’t think Just For Beards has a whitening option.’ So I told her to go fuck herself, bought a can of aerosol snow, and made my own magic! What do you think?”

Dooo it… Dooo it….. Dooo it…….. DOOO IT!……. DOOOO IIIIIIIIIIT!

Okay, (1) – those missing posters are all duplicated! (2) – one of those missing “children” has a beard!

“I don’t like this Naziopoly game grandpa gave us. I can’t pronounce any of the properties, and the railroads don’t even have different names. They’re all just labeled ‘Holocaust Trains’. And why are the Electric Company and Water Works replaced with Oven Works and Gas Showers!? This is worse than that Cambodian Candyland knock-off, ‘Pol Pot’s Killing Fields’.”

I hate guys who treat their paintball games like it’s fucking SEAL Team training… at least that’s what I think is happening in this shot, given how it’s SO FUCKING OUT OF FOCUS! Kids, always learn to USE the camera before you start making your movies.

Taking a cue from his hero, Jim Varney, Larry the Cable Guy decides to star in a bunch of really dumb cheap-o comedies. Up first: Larry the Army Guy. After this? Larry the Camping Guy, Larry the Christmas Saving Guy, Larry the Scared Stupid Guy, Larry the Slam Dunking Guy, and if there’s enough money left over, Larry the Fat White Redneck in Africa Guy… which sounds like an interracial gay porn. Perfect.

Krampy tries out his new UrbanDictionary sexual maneuver entry on his girlfriend. He doesn’t know whether to call it a “Sam Elliot” or a “Wyatt Earp”. You can’t just call it “the Cumstache”, after all.

I have a feeling his jolly red nose isn’t because of Jack Frost so much as it’s thanks to Old Milwaukee and cocaine.

Typical fucking cop – pulls over everybody he sees driving on their cell phones, then just goes right ahead and does it himself! What a dick cheese!

Ah, I see Santa’s starting his own veal venture geared toward cannibals. Always the entrepreneur, that guy.

How to make the world’s least believable Action News cast – for starters, her teleprompter is apparently GLUED TO THE CEILING! Also, the file photo they have for the dead Officer Walker? Apparently taken from Duffin’s cell phone RIGHT BEFORE THEY STARTED HUNTING FOR KRAMPUS!

Heather (in the pink): “Mom, I’ve always wondered but… have I always looked five years older than you?!”

“Excuse me ma’am, but I’m a door-to-door lung salesman. Are you in need of any lungs? Or, perhaps you have any lungs you don’t need and would like to part with?”

Man with massive head wound (or was just hit with cherry syrup) is watched from the window behind him by a happy cartoon polar bear who’s apparently masturbating, while the jersey of an infamous football playing rapist hangs proudly on the wall behind them… this is a shot worthy of Lynch.

He’s about to learn that you don’t ignore this bar’s two drink minimum policy!

Imagine this guy coming at you while making that face and waving his dick around. If he’s the President of Steelers Country, I suggest you stay the fuck away from Steelers Country!… though he would be perfect to play Egg Head in Edgar Wright’s Ant Man movie!

If David Cronenberg’s mask from Nightbreed were a person.

So that’s Krampus. Pretty bad ass for a Halloween mask from Spencer’s Gifts, right? Except for one huge problem. See that little band of white right behind his top row of teeth? That’s the mouth of the person inside the mask… it’s prevalently viewable during the ENTIRETY of this scene…

Oh my gods! They killed Bubba Ray Dudley!



Anubis will return next time in
“They Prefer to Be Called ‘the Vertically Challenged Living Impaired Motorcycle Enthusiasts’”

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