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A skanky, Seka-lite dumb blonde named Kari Klark (who the credits tell us was a “Hustler centerfold”…sure to be an honor you want to put on your business card) is the “last human left alive”, “manufactured in a protoplasmic duplicator” developed by Xerox, “the messiah of machine intelligence” who can “duplicate anything in the known universe still for only 3c a copy”.

Yeah, you can tell what sort of a film you’re in for.

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Talking in a ridiculous Southern accent and doing about the sorriest Marilyn Monroe impression you’ve ever seen, this skinny, leggy broad with a dumpy ass (you’d never imagine so many stretch marks and cellulite scars on a woman this thin) wears a “space outfit” that gives her the beaver split variant of cameltoe and comes on to a talking hamper that is supposed to be her alien captor/provider.

Seriously, a talking hamper.  It’s like director Howard Ziehm wrapped an electric blanket around the laundry basket, then put a silly face on top.  It’s pretty hilarious in an unintentional sense.

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When she grinds against the space hamper and asks what sex is (yeah, I’m sure she doesn’t know…), we get transported back to a lame (but authentically costumed!) 50’s variant of Adam and Eve, with Cheap Trick’s Bun E. Carlos (actually some guy named J.C. Philips) dressed like a leprechaun and supposedly representing the devil.

Scariest damn satan I ever saw, I tell ya…where’s Count Floyd when you need him?

Half assed 50’s rock n’ roll plays and some Midwestern grease monkey of an Adam (Bud Wise) balls weird looking, gum popping Eve Tracy Walton on the front of their snazzy convertible roadster (which appears to be a ’36 Ford, complete with rumble seat) with canned peaches and bananas.  It gets kind of messy.

At least she’s got a nice body…

oh, yeah, Walton too.  Just a one bag job.  Damn fine car, though…

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Then there’s a silent horror film bit, complete wtih title cards, overdramatic piano and overacting, featuring cute (and quite appropriate looking!) Chris Anderson, her dorky boyfriend Chris Bloom, a horny Dracula with a huge elongated face (“Johnny Harden”, looking for all the world like a younger Zacherley) and some fool in a Richard Nixon mask (“Tricky Dicky”).  While as campy as hell, it’s once again very true to its period in aesthetic terms, and as a lifelong fan of pre-Code cinema, definitely my favorite part of the film.

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Then it’s good ol’ American jock bullshit, as the director’s daughter gets to play cheerleader alongside two skanky porn stars (Terri Dolan and Anne Magle) who use more than their cheering skills to save the big high school game.

The running back (Mike Ranger) gets knocked out during scrimmage, and these two get him back in the game by rubbing their privates over the dope’s nose and beating him off.  Rah, go team.  Where’s Hank Jr.?  ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL!?!?  Whatever…

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At least the cheerleaders were sorta skanky-cute, which is more than you can say for the repulsive tranny of a “snake dancer” in the next sequence (Tantala Ray), who stands on her head to show off her sagging breasts and gives us unwanted closeups of her Veri Knotty-like perpetually distended lips (which Ziehm thoughtfully appends icky suction cup noises to).

As part of the evening’s fun, an overeager waitress (“Pandora Box”) hucks an extra $100 a head out of the inexplicably horny customers of this horror show for a hands-on Doc Johnson tupperware party with cute Malaysian faux-geisha “Zen Kitty” (who only shows her face in the last seconds of the scene) and dinner gloves and dancewear-sporting “Brenda Leggs”.

All of this apparently got our dim bulb heroin(e) all hot, so she oils herself up and diddles herself to a disgustingly cake batter-inflected faux-orgasm (seriously, it’s a trick toy she’s using – and it gets seriously messy).

Sheesh, can we go back to the 20’s and 50’s scenarios?

PLEASE?

Well, look, despite a really weird looking face, Walton has a killer bod, Anderson’s simply a knockout, and while we never get a front view, that “Zen Kitty” wasn’t too shabby either.  The attention to period-authentic costuming and props in the aforementioned pair of scenes is surprisingly admirable, and the film has a lighthearted feel throughout.

I just wish Ziehm had blown up those two scenes into a full length feature and dropped the rest, which goes from meh (the football sequence) to absolutely nauseating (the messy Tom Jonesisms of the 50’s thing, the entire nightclub sequence and the gruesome cake batter finale).

If it were solely those two…arguably even three “stories” (if you include the jock thing) we were reviewing here, this would be a definite thumbs up recommendation, particularly with the amusement factor of the talking hamper tagged on for extra credit laughs.

My suggestion?  Eject the disc immediately after Ranger scores (ahem), and you’ve got an entertaining, typically well restored bit of 70’s scumhouse celluloid on your hands.

Just whatever you do…don’t stick around for the rest.

Your still unscarred brain and un-turned stomach will thank you for it.

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