COLUMN EIGHTY-EIGHT, APRIL 1, 2003
(Copyright - 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)
[Joe Bob Briggs is a renowned drive-in movie critic, better known throughout Texas than in the New York area. Also an actor who has appeared in such films as Casino, Texas Chainsaw Massacre II and The Stand, he in addition is a columnist who writes The Joe Bob Report, in which he writes his reviews of drive-in junk films in his own shorthand language. Which Mark Kramer aptly apes in the following parody. Briggs also writes serious journalism under the pseudonym of "John Bloom? and his columns are widely syndicated. everywhere. Although the author of this piece facetiously claims that "any resemblance of Joe Bob Briggs to Blow Job Dreggs is purely accidental," he obviously thinks Joe Bob is another Texan who, like that state's former governor, deserves to be laughed at.]
day passes anymore without one of my fans writing in to ask, "What's
it all ABOUT, Blow Job??
a readers? service, I'm gonna set the record straight once and for all:
It's ABOUT eight inches of USDA
White Angus turkeyneck. If you know
what I mean and I think you do.
maybe some of you fanboys and alterna-girls out there think that bein? Blow
Job is easy, and that when I'm not pennin? the purest prose this side of THE
GOAT GAP GAZETTE, or felchin? my way into embarrassing film roles?I?m
pourin' the pork to some celebrity-impaired
teenage groupie. Well, you done got THAT right SUCKAZ.
I'm not the kind of hotspur who takes a McCulloch chainsaw to a bimbo's
extremities on the first date "unless she throws down first. And that
debutramp at the Floating Mesa Drive-In definitely posed a career-threatenin?
was idling by the chalupa bar like a Rocket 88 in a Dairy Queen parking lot. It
was the opening night tailgate gala for GALAXY OF PUS, a fetid fistful of steak
tartare that would choke a possum.
Giblets fly. Heads roll. Nine and half nekkid breasts.
Gratuitous chop-socky with emphasis on jeet kune-do and the ancient
Venusian art of eyeball-gouging. One
spontaneous combustion. Three French hens.
Blow Job says check it out.
So there I was working the crowd, signing books and pressing the flesh, when I noticed that the blonde by the buffet was staring at me with the humid eyes of a starving calf in a hailstorm?emanating a diseased vitality reminiscent of B-movie scream queens from Francis Farmer and Sharon Tate to Linnea Quigley and Heather Lagenkamp. She was CAGED HEAT without the cage, a mall bunny without the mall, an alien abductee without the alien---in short, a demon in Doc Martens with a shuddering rack of jubjubs that would induce priapism in a cyborg.
by a plot hole
as big as Dallas. . .'
the kind of succubistic, psychotronic trollop who dreams of Trent Reznor
but will settle for Blow Job. My mission?
To SPERMINATE, with extreme prejudice.
her dewy gaze, and elbowing my way through a doughy, short-fingered pack of BLOW
JOB GOES TO THE DRIVE-IN fans whose one wish in life is for a nod of
acknowledgement from Yours Truly, I
arrive at the bim's side---where I am overcome by her maddening, musky scent
of lavender, frangipani and lymph.
everything went black.
I awaken in my suite at the La Mordida Motor Inn, it's clear Blow Job had been
enveloped by a plot hole as big as Dallas. Moreover, the circular bed on which I
am sprawled like a lump of roadkill is
soaked with the blonde's arterial spray. Good thing, I reflect, that Blow Job
is nobody's fool and has registered under a pseudonym for the room and paid
the other hand, I do not yet know about the Italian designer drugs slipped into
my beernuts by a deranged admirer.
But then again, the dripping, gristle-clogged chainsaw on the room service cart
As Eddie Gein once quipped, "Life's a bitch and then you gut her."
If you know what I mean and I think you do. ##
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