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It’s that time of month again.  You know, when guys know it’s better to hide under the covers for a few days?

That’s right, it’s time for another pairing of vintage releases from our old pal Carlos Tobalina, and this time both hail from that halcyon year 1983…

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First up, we have My Sinful Life, which features bottle blonde stoner gal Danielle, alongside 70’s leading man Jamie Gills and up and coming 80’s mainman Tom Byron…but who does Carlos top bill after Dani?

You guessed it, “Introducing The Fabulous “B.J.”

Don’t ask me.

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“Regarding thcool, though, I juth want you to know that I’m gonna finith that for my own interethts. I mean, you know I’m a sthraight A sthudent.”
“I’m glad, um, your admission…was…really exthiting, it mutht make yer…self real happy.”

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So begins the lisp-off between our mopey stonerette star and her rather Terri Garr-like presumed aunt Vicki.  Dani’s come to stay to get away from her inbred family, which includes an uncredited Don Fernando in what’s either a bad old man wig or a whole bag of flour in his helmetlike coiff as “dad”, the posterior blessed Brooke Fields as “mom” and the aforementioned (and rather youthful) Byron as “son”.  You can imagine what goes on in this upstanding household.  At least you can if you have a particularly twisted imagination or especially jaded view on life…

“No, I didn’t…I didn’t know any of this, umm…of course, though, you know that Sebathtian and Crithtine aren’t your real parents.  That you are adopted.  And, uh..well…look, you don’t have to worry about any of this, that stuff here, because…this is your new home, and…uh…we got a lot to do, and… it’s been a long day…let’s just go unpack…an’ uh, then we’ll…cause we have to register…you for school tomorrow.”

Thanks for the “out”, Carlos.  I can just see guilty grindhouse patrons pulling their hands out of their filthy trenchcoats long enough to wipe their foreheads in relief.  Whew, that was a close one!

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Of course, no sooner does Our Favorite Burnout hit campus than she’s befriended a very 80’s gap toothed Flashdance wannabe who we’re told “must be really rich, you have a lot of nice clothes”.
“How do you make your money?” our heroin(e) asks.
“Oh…in a…quiet, unknown way,” our bubbleheaded Beals replies, helpfully.

And so we move on to employment in an old fashioned brothel run by the frighteningly dead on long lost sister to Zsa Zsa and Eva, “Helga” Gabor (who may actually be terrifying grandma-MI(W)LF* Aunt Peg).  Meanwhile, Vicki gets a visit from Tom Byron, who wonders where Sis is.

* remember, kids, the W stands for “wouldn’t” if not “would never“…

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“Well, she got a job with a girlfriend of hers from work, and, um…uh, from school, and she got a job working as a waitress down, uh…mm…(clicks tongue during long forgetful pause)…not too far from here.”

Ladies and gentlemen, the Academy Award of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences goes to…

Hell, even Carlos was bemused enough to play goofy ragtime style player piano music after that bravura line reading…and then we’re informed that our mystery “aunt” (could she be the “Fabulous BJ” trumpeted in the opening credits?) was on a phone call when Byron arrived, leaving the other party hanging all this time!  The laughs just never stop…

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Patron Gillis gets with both Danielle and our Flashdancer, Byron starts wanking to a little red book (do they leave Victorian erotica laying around on the coffee table or something?), and our redheaded actress of the year doffs her leather skirt to show why she got hired for this gig, because “we’re all family anyway!” (shudder).

Just to make sure no one comes away unscathed, there’s a twist ending that brings it all full circle and lets nobody off the hook.  Hell, there’s even a hilariously blunt closing theme song that spells it all out for you, so there’s no mistake as to what’s being said here!

Gee, thanks, Carlos…

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Well, for what it’s worth, “Aunt Vicki” is the best looking member of the cast (so of course, there’s not a single screenshot featuring her), Fields and to a lesser extent Danielle have pleasant enough posteriors, and we get the patented Tobalina duo of director cameo and orgy sequence before matters come to a close.

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Next up, we head out to Sin City to hook…er, hook up with those Las Vegas Girls and get introduced to “a galaxie of new super stars”.  Beyond the obvious connotation that no, this film will feature zero recognizable cast members, I see from the title card that Carlos’ command of the English language continues to improve…

At least we get some nice travelogue footage, from the airport to the strip.  Redd Foxx and Slappy White are double billing at the Hacienta, Jerry Lewis and Jack Jones are at the Sahara, and hey, isn’t that the same MGM Grand hotel suite from Her Last Fling? No, it’s actually a much snazzier one, complete with jacuzzi, private bar and stunning skyline view…ah, perfect time to insert one of those typically Tobalina orgy sequences.

And hey, what’s with that tacky room with all the clashing colors and motifs, not to mention all the giant Christmas decorations?  Did they suddenly fly out to Graceland? Paging Elvis…

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Anyway, the plot, such as it is, revolves around a missing daughter and the male/female private eyes hired to track her down through an ocean of prostitutes.  You can guess how the investigation runs for him, while our sardonically Southern fried distaff dick is content to diddle herself vigorously in her own hotel room, in the shower, and so on. Hey, is that William Margold in one of the hooker orgies?  Yeah, and that girl from Flesh Pond is with him…

Considering that the “parents” are quite geriatric (the father just did a round with Gabor and company in My Sinful Life, but we’re easily talking well past retirement age here), it’s a bit grimace inducing to see a “daughter” barely beyond her teens (when are they supposed to have had her, at 55?).  But Carlos does give everyone a “happy” ending – the oldsters find their daughter, the daughter bags herself a “rich man”, and The Diddler finally gets laid by her partner, prompting her to drawl, “we-all found each other”. *

*Well, close enough, y’all.

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Vinegar Syndrome does its usual bang up job in restoring these tidbits of hysterical…I mean, historical detritus to a vibrancy that easily puts more recent and modern productions to shame, and if you’re just looking for a few cheap laughs, ridiculous lines delivered by folks with a severely limited command of either the script or the English language per se, there’s nothing quite like these nigh-monthly double features from the Tobalina family vault – I actually find myself looking forward to them at this point, if only for the sheer comic relief.

Bring on the next batch!

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