Contempt… pure, unadulterated contempt. You can feel it pouring off the screen. If your climax-based discharge resembles molasses, monetize that shit, motherscratcher! You be ejaculating liquid gold! It turns out Rinse Dream detests more than just your erection. Mmm-dee-lish! Is there anything more pantie captivating than manic Manitoba-style cackling, distorted monkey noises and Barbara Bush’s pre-gray whisker biscuit? I don’t know. I lost my ability to discern nonsense in a parasailing accident over Mauna Loa. This isn’t your skeevy uncle’s porn, this is a targeted hit job by an erudite man who has had enough. He hates porn. The people who watch it, the people who appear in it, and even the people who make it. And Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West Part 2: Jammy Glands from the Rio Grande solidifies this hatred in the most unambiguous terms possible. In the early 1980’s (sometime during Yuri Andropov’s brief tenure as leader of USSR), Rinse Dream made two films, Cafe Flesh and Nightdreams. Both satirized the whole idea of watching people fuck onscreen. It was pretty compelling stuff and was unlike anything that came before it. Fast-forward ten years to the early 1990s, and the satire of those earlier films has been replaced by a full frontal audio-video assault on the very idea of porn.
I can’t confirm this, but I think the executives at Zane Entertainment must have given Rinse Dream some production notes after seeing chapter one. Because unlike the other Rinse Dreams sequels (Party Doll A Go-Go! 2, I’m looking in your general direction), where the style and tone is pretty much the same as the first film, the style and tone Jammy Glands from Rio Grande is slightly different. There’s less dialogue during the sex scenes, the music is more western themed, and the performers wear their cowgirl hats more often (even though they eventually end up being tossed on the floor mid-hump/lick).
In order to get around the restrictions placed on him as a visionary, Rinse Dream has decided to go all-in with the text inserts. HUMDINGER! The humour presented in these spruced up newfangled jammy-gland inserts is sharper and even more biting. Don’t get me wrong, the dialogue uttered in this debacle slathered boondoggle still needs to find its way into the Smithsonian. Seriously, put it next to Ernest Borgnine’s colostomy bag, stat! It’s just that the text inserts are so good at rearranging your internal organs without the express written consent of Major League Bocce Ball (Yo! Look at me! I’m being all Italianski over here). Ugh. Burn the pink bra and white cowgirl boots that Sagebrush Sally is wearing. I think I’m gonna vomit spider eggs.
Yeah, I love to watch moist lumpy folds of damaged nerve endings get licked to the sound of bloodcurdling screams and maniacal laughter. I mean, who doesn’t? Actually, I don’t. (You could fast forward?) What and miss a cheeky text insert? I don’t think so… “Rinse Dream makes me feel like… Humpin’ Jack Lord’s hair.” Yes! “Rinse Dream makes me feel… as pretty as red M&M’s.” Yes! Yes! “Rinse Dream makes me feel like… makin’ spam hoagies for a bell tower assassin.” Yes! Yes! Yes! This is hilarious, Emma! Rinse Dream has become more self-referential than ever. I also love the way your cum travels to the Lemko-Rusyn People’s Republic via your washboard abs. Mount me with your chiseled aqueduct!
I still don’t see any stockings. But I do see tumbleweeds. But they ain’t exactly tumbling… now are they? I wish I could detach myself from my roots and roll across the Ukrainian countryside. (My dainty feet are about to be slathered in toxic sludge… yet he chooses to stare longingly at my bellybutton lint as it blows across the interstate.)
When Cricket (Jeanna Fine) and Sagebrush Sally (Tiffany Million) briefly exchange Pulitzer Prize winning dialogue after T.T. Boy finally coughs up his curdled consignment, I think got hint of a plot. It would seem that Sagebrush Sally, who offers Cricket a peak at her photos of Barbara Bush’s nether region, is on her way to the ponderosa to drop off a gross of adult diapers. Papa-oom-mow-mow! Have orgasm–will travel. “Tie me up and make me a KY sundae.”
Getting back to men and women without hats. There once was a pink cowgirl hat that sat upon the head of a limp fuckface. Then the pink cowgirl hat magically appears on Cricket’s head as the limp fuckface muff dives. After only a few seconds of wear, Cricket then tosses the pink cowgirl hat towards a wild west yard sale masquerading as a radioactive New Jersey landfill. Don’t you ever accuse Jammy-Glands of not possessing any drama or suspense. Talk about being on the edge of one’s seat.
The painting that Dr. Caligari has delivered to Dr. Avol’s place of residence in the cinematic equivalent of discovering first-rate cunnilingus at the world’s worst hot dog stand makes several appearances during Jeanna Fine’s third junk pile pussy taste test. I think it’s safe to say that I could pick out Jeanna Fine’s squishy petunia in a pussy lineup with a breathtaking ease. Anyway, I took the repeated shots of the imprisoned teary-eyed wide-eyed subject to represent the sadness Stephen Sayadian must be feeling. He doesn’t really want to be making this movie. And we the audience don’t really want to be watching it. But here we are… so, let’s try to make the best of it.
At the end, Zane tease about there being a Chapter 3 in the works. If I was in charge, Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West: Even Cowgirls Get Blue Balls would be about a saloon located on the outskirts of a radioactive swamp that caters to connoisseurs of chicks with dicks. Run by a woman named Cathy Catheter, she tries her best to turn a profit and keep her harem of wily t-girls safe from the roving bands of ravenous pansexual dope fiends that litter the unforgiving landscape. The film doesn’t take place on Earth per se, but in a realm called the Ultra-0-Verse (ul-tra-zero-verse). It rains estrogen, and since not everyone wants to drink estrogen, the only water available is unclouded t-girl cum. Which, of course, Miss Catheter bottles and sells at her saloon. Yee-haw!
Huge thank you and howdy to Tom Clark (Vortice Mortale) for hooking me up with this overstuffed hamper chock full of creamy Rinse Dream goodness.
