Category So Terrible It’s Amazing

Evil will always prevail, because good is dumb.

Attention citizens: there is now a group of masked superheroes fighting crime in Seattle.

If ‘masked’ includes ski masks and ‘fighting crime’ includes taking golf clubs away from raving homeless men and then not being able to file a complaint because they don’t want to reveal their secret identities counts as acts of heroism, that is. They have their girlfriend drive their godmother’s Kia Fate around, looking for evildoers. One can only imagine that they meet back for cheetos, cocoa, and some wicked-tough rounds of Mario Kart at the Rain City Superhero Movement’s headquarters, aka, grandma’s basement. The names of these heroes? Thorn, Buster Doe, Green Reaper, Gemini, No Name, Catastrophe, Thunder 88, Penelope and Phoenix Jones the Guardian of Seattle.

However, what have we learned from movies, television, and comic books? Superheroes can’t just fight regular homeless-man-based crime. They need supervillains. I hereby proclaim myself one of those supervillains: Sassmachine, evildoer extraordinaire! My evil powers include aggressive driving and making inappropriate jokes that make everyone laugh and feel bad for doing so immediately afterward. I embody anti-Seattle. I won’t let you merge! I won’t wave you through a four way stop! If you’re an Ave rat taking your sweet time sauntering across the street when you KNOW I’m waiting to turn, I’ll mow your hipster ass down and snap you like a goddamned twig with my Ford Taurus assault vehicle! To demonstrate my total disregard for the rules of the road, I have been driving with one burned-out headlight for MONTHS and I will continue to do so–take that, heroes!

My partner in crime will be Waste Stream, a domestic eco-terrorist. He will perform his evil by scattering tracts hailing our evil deeds and talking smack about the superheroes, printed on virgin paper that has been laminated so it will never biodegrade, accompanied by the occasional half-eaten food product or lead-filled piece of broken electronics.

At this time, we also retain one executive villain assistant, who shouts obscenities at passers-by, points and laughs at the attempts of the heroes, and makes us coffee.

Pure. Evil.

We are accepting further applications for our League of Petty Evil, so if you would like to join, please let us know your name and a little bit about you to make sure your type of evil really meshes with the group. A picture would also help us further determine if you are League of Petty Evil material. As you can see, we have a pretty sweet lair going already.

150570_465319603939_1881689_n Coming soon: mini-fridge. Of evil.

To further demonstrate my qualifications as an evildoer, here I am on a chart among other known evildoers:

Once you’re on a chart, you know you’ve made the big leagues.

My first evil task was to set up a facebook page announcing my evil presence, and ‘liking’ the Rain City Superhero Movement. I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before I am both hated and feared.

“Tell me when you’re sick of having your mouth open and I’ll be the hole.” (part two)

After stuffing ourselves sick, we drove to Marsh’s Free Museum. If you’ve ever gazed upon a piece of tacky merchandise so wondrous you never knew how you lived without it, you know what it is to be in Marsh’s.   28726_398696973939_3698896_n Marsh’s schtick revolves around Jake the Alligator Man, a poorly taxidermied monkey/alligator hybrid which has been featured prominently in the now-defunct Weekly World News, the only paper brave enough to tell us the truth about Bigfoot abandoning his children and Mrs. Bigfoot having to hook to buy diapers because her babies crap like a man. I may have, in my youth, read a story about this self-same Alligator Man and wholeheartedly believed it, because why would anything with ‘News’ in the name lie to me? News flash: I am naive. 28726_398696983939_1637958_n Marsh’s treasures hail from a different era, a time when we needed machines to mold things for us. Today, in the Pacific Northwest, things like bread and window sills and underarms manage to grow mold without aid. Truly, we live in the future! 28726_398696988939_3540491_n Do you suppose the cotton is magic? Or is magic corporeal now? What do magic boxers do? Is the fit magic? Do they lend magical properties to objects around them? Magic asses! Think of the possibilities! 28726_398696998939_3649411_n Of course, if you want to be a true stud, you will wear a studded t-shirt. There’s even danger inherent in wearing it! Nipple burn, or something! 28726_398697193939_5516951_n What is this I don’t even 28726_398697158939_4609516_n Jake himself is trapped in a lackluster glass case. I, for one, believe he should have some neon flashiness, a little more glittery Vegas-style sheen to him. At least give him a hat appropriate to the season!   …Like this one. Appropriate for all seasons! 28726_398697188939_5537175_n Especially deer season. 28726_398697238939_3403231_n 28726_398697433939_3599699_n Yes, that is totally a two-headed alcoholic snake and not some doll heads propped upon a turd.


Racist or delicious? Both? 28726_398697468939_7519764_n Jesus Christ that lion has hemmorhoids, get in the car! I brought home with me three amazing new things: a rad poster, an alligator head, and a skullfuck pirate to go with the blowjob pirate I sadly didn’t buy last year which has now been sold and I will have to make my own because my grand new plan for the pirate bathroom (now quite different from the pictures but whatever) is to have a shelf with “Pirates You Can Stick Your Dick Into: The Series” which requires at bare minimum three pirates: A Skullfuck Pirate, A Blowjob Pirate, and an Earfuck Pirate. These are the sorts of things one can do with their apartment when it’s conceivable that no family will ever come to vist, ever again. After we got home from Marsh’s, it was time for a marshmallow gun war. It started earnestly enough with Emily standing patiently with her mouth open, waiting for a delicious marshmallow to land inside. It ramped up when she got popped in both eyes, particularly so when we discovered that velocity and sting to recipient increases if we wet the marshmallows just slightly, and that we could load several into the barrel for a scattershot effect. Marshmallows went EVERYWHERE. Down the stairs, behind picture frames, inside the decorative brick-a-brak, into the fireplace, behind the television, between the couch cushions…everywhere. The firing squad versus the willing victim. 28726_398695748939_5697526_n 28726_398695883939_8016977_n After that marshmallow war was cleaned up, we settled in to watch Orgazmo and play the associated drinking game: drink every time someone says the word ‘Orgazmo’, ‘Heavenly Father’, or ‘Jesus’, which means we got loaded. A few drunk folks (no names, ahem) discovered that you can make really awesome sea lion noises through a marshmallow gun. Particularly in the wee hours when everything else is quiet enough to allow your bellows to truly reverberate. It was only after we’d stopped making damn fools of ourselves that we realized there were people attempting to sleep who were planning on getting up early the next day to leave, so we attempted quiet peace offerings. 28726_398697483939_723663_n After all the excitement and running around, we all felt quite awake and settled in to watch another movie, during which we all passed out on our respective couches. Thus endeth day two.


Oh my god, Deep Blue Sea is on TV tonight. To imagine my level of surprised delight, it’s pretty much equivalent to telling a five year old that Santa is making an extra-special stop at their house, just because.

I love that it has sharks the size of a room and yet they can swim in about a foot of water. I love that it’s basically set at Alcatraz for sharks. I love that the scientists that are working with the sharks “FOR SCIENCE!!!” are consistently surprised that sharks behave like sharks, and that the suuuuuper smart sharks they engineered do super-smart things.

Just watch this and you’ll see why it’s pretty much one of the greatest schlocky movies ever:

The only reason I’ve never purchased this cinematic masterpiece is that I’m afraid its glory might be diminished with repeated watchings. And believe me, it is glorious.

*edit* LOL, due to the tv edits, the characters are swearing using the phrase ‘gal-darn’.


Every week, Amy peruses the list of new DVD releases for things to add to her Netflix list. Last week, she called out to me as I was getting ready for work. “Melissa? I think I found a movie for you–Mega Shark Vs Giant Octopus.”


This is the sort of movie that I tend to have high expectations for and ultimately walk away disappointed. It didn’t help that it starred both Debbie Gibson and Lorenzo Lamas, which assisted in cementing my ‘this will be a glorious trainwreck’ mindset.


Now, I have to admit that actually WATCHING the movie, a lot of the time I was bored. In these sorts of creature features, there is never enough creature, and alltogether too much time is devoted to watching characters you don’t give a flip about overact as if their very lives depended on it. It was mildly amusing to watch them do SCIENCE! by pouring colored water into various test tubes and beakers and make either happy faces or overly sad “I am the worst scientist who has ever done science” faces. Did you know that pheremones glow bright green? That’s how Super Scientist Debbie Gibson knew she had done her job properly, and everyone gave her smooches on the cheek to let her know what a good scientist she was.

At one point, they cut away to a scene of a plane struggling in a storm. I rolled my eyes and thought how special it was that they were including plane footage in a movie where the antagonists are all in the motherfucking ocean. Then this, the most amazing scene in the history of cinema, happened.

This is better than when the shark rears up and bites the Golden Gate Bridge in half. This is better than the octopus smacking a low-flying fighter jet out of the sky with one tentacled blow. This is better than Lorenzo Lamas pretending he’s a good actor. THIS IS A MOTHERFUCKING SHARK EATING A MOTHERFUCKING PLANE AT 30,000 FEET.

I laughed so hard, I fell off of my chair. I laughed so hard, Napoleon had a fit. I laughed so hard, Amy came to investigate. I sent gleeful text messages about the quality of the film. I took a shaky cell-phone video of the scene in case it wasn’t already on youtube. I watched it about SIX MORE TIMES.

You’ve already seen the best part of the movie, so I can’t in good conscience recommend it. Scenes where we should have seen the Japanese battling the octopus were cut and substituted with one Japanese dude on a video screen saying “I hope you fared better with the shark than we did with the octopus. It was horrible. Horrible.” What could have been awesome destruction/fight footage was always cut with “We don’t need to see the end of this. Let’s get out of here.” The end battle is lackluster as hell–you could probably imagine a battle between a shark and an octopus that’s more entertaining. Perhaps between rubber bathtub toys, because that’s what these looked like. Scale goes wonky–at one point, the shark is large enough to bite the golden gate bridge in half, but can’t seem to manage to chew through a submarine. These are HUGE animals when they’re crunching through other things, but when they’re together, there’s never anything in the scene for size reference, so they look like 3d stock footage. It’s pretty clear that the directors didn’t know how to handle size, so they changed things as it suited their purpose.

Oh yeah: Also, this is a movie with a message. Global warming releases giant sea monsters as comeuppance for our environmental irresponsibility. You’d bettah believe it!

Who loves bad art?

Poll #1342550 IMPORTANT POLL Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 32

What is your first thought upon viewing this masterpiece?

Is this so bad it’s good, or so bad it’s bad?

View Answers Bad? It’s amazing! 3 (9.4%) 

It’s awesomely bad. 14 (43.8%)

It’s ‘Batman & Robin’ level bad–nothing at all redeeming about it. 8 (25.0%)

It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. 5 (15.6%)

…mommy. 2 (6.2%)

If I was to buy this, would it affect your perception of me?

View Answers Yes. I’d think your home is more awesome due to its presence. 8 (25.8%) 

Yes. I’d want to know what room you keep it in, in order to avoid it forever. 11 (35.5%)

Yes. I know you like trash culture, but this is JUST. TOO. MUCH. What’s next, collecting Tarot comics? 11 (35.5%)

Nope. 7 (22.6%)

Ticky box! 12 (38.7%)

Wisconsin Day Four: The White Trash Wedding of the Century

Unless you are John Waters, only occasionally in your life will you be called to bear witness to a true trash spectacle. And when that moment arises, it is your solemn duty to absorb every detail so that you may regale others with the story for years to come.

Friends, I stand here before you today to tell you the tale of the White Trash Wedding of the Century.

I was not invited to this wedding but attended as the guest of someone else who likely should not have been invited, either. You see, at different times, both of us had dated the groom. We both determined that sometimes people are ‘touched by an angel’; only in this instance, we were both ‘touched by a moron’. He had actually gone as far as proposing to Nicki while high on whippets, because nothing quite says “I will love and cherish you forever” like concentrated inhalants that strike down large swaths of brain cells in an instant. Lesser girls might have taken those glazed eyes for true love, flashed him a boob and then squealed yes, but Nicki, being a different caliber of lady entirely, decided that she COULD do worse, but only if she went cross-species.

You might think we’re being harsh, bitter bitches in our disdain, and you would be wrong. Here, I’ll prove it to you.

*This is a guy who proclaims to be an enlightened Taoist, but is seriously pondering getting a “bitchin’ tattoo of the Archangel Michael fighting Lucifer”.

*This is a guy who cannot construct a basic sentence in his native language yet somehow felt qualified to pursue a doctorate; when he was rejected by schools that felt differently, he placed the blame for the rejection on coming from a ‘broken home’. I didn’t personally know that when your parents got divorced well after you’d already moved out that it still counts as coming from a broken home. I’m looking forward to using this new scapegoat to my advantage. “I’m sorry that I missed that work deadline; I come from a broken home.”

*This is a guy who lists ‘tacos’ and ‘his cat’ as interests in an online profile before his wife. He also lists Jesus as one of his personal heroes. What?!? I thought he was a Taoist! The entire list consists of Jesus, Wolverine, Ghandi, Socrates, Benkei, Abraham Lincoln, and ‘Those who fought for us in America to save our freedom (what we have of it at least) and rights’. So I guess, Civil War soldiers. But most importantly, Jesus.

*This is a guy who refused (and still refuses) to sign the birth certificate for his daughter without having a lawyer look at it, because he’s afraid it might make him financially responsible for the kid that was apparently immaculately conceived, as that’s the only feasible reason to NOT man up and admit he’s the father. Since he can’t afford a lawyer, he still hasn’t signed it. That, and maybe he figures broken homes beget broken homes. I’m not an expert.

Even though Nicki set the bride up with the groom, for some reason, the bride still remains her friend, and insisted that Nicki be invited though Ben objected. Mandy won, and soon Nicki received this gem in the mail:

I knew as soon as I saw the South Park characters in the likeness of the bride and groom that I was being called to witness a major trash event. I was so certain of this that I flew across the country so that I could have first-hand memories of this event with me for the rest of my natural life.

So on Saturday, October 18th, Nicki and I put on our finest attire, prepared for an evening of velveeta and sausages from a can, and drove to the ‘Polish League of American Veterans Hall’. But how does one truly prepare for such a momentous occasion, knowing that you’ll be coming face to face with history? We arrived a few minutes before the reception was due to start (no one was invited to the wedding except family, and with six people standing up on either side and two people in the audience, I’m sure it made for a funny picture at the zoo. Oh yes, I neglected to mention: They got married at the Racine Zoo, home of the Mellzah-molesting camel. Because nothing other than whippets says ‘I will love you and cherish you forever’ like the wafting smell of large animal feces.) and determined it wouldn’t be right if the people who showed up to snark the wedding arrived earlier than any nice, legitimate guests, so we decided to prepare by having a drink at the bar across the street beforehand. A rather large drink at the bar beforehand.

Thirty minutes and thirty-two ounces of hard liquor later, we darted through traffic and into the Polish League of American Veterans Hall, and waited for the wedding party to show. And waited. And waited. And waited.

And then we noticed this sheet of goldenrod-colored delight at each folding table seat, and the grand trash ceremonies began. I have endeavored on this occasion to only snark at the groom.


I’m pretty certain that someone’s grandma doesn’t need to know anything about Jeremy Bush’s beast, and may, in fact, be happier living in ignorance.

She might also have been happier if she had been struck suddenly with blindness moments before the entrance of the wedding party, because no one with 20/20 vision left the event without cursing its clarity and precision, even at a distance.

The groomsmen were clearly instructed to wear just ‘a shirt and tie’ without respect to color or style, and thus strutted in with one powder blue shirt, one electric blue shirt, one lucifer’s ass red shirt, one beige vest, one white shirt, and one poufy ren-faire shirt. I remain surprised that no one decided to sport the Canadian Tuxedo: jeans, a denim shirt and a jean jacket.

The groom elected to appear at his own wedding, in photos he was paying for, with hair bleached so blond, it appears in safety gear catalogs directly behind ‘safety orange’, and a goatee comprised of 7 carefully-spirit-gum-applied pubic hairs.


When the lights were turned off in the hall, his hair glowed in the dark.

I felt awfully sorry for Mandy and her rather unfortunate, unflattering dress, but she made her own bed when she asked one of the groomsmen’s recent, unproven hobby seamstress girlfriend to make her wedding dress, and a dress for her daughter. This hobby seamstress girlfriend took on the job, and then sent the bride a text message on the day of the wedding to let her know that neither dress was done. After much freaking out, the hobby seamstress girlfriend finished the wedding dress bare minutes before Mandy needed to put it on for the ceremony. As she fastened the zipper in the back, hobby seamstress girlfriend proudly mentioned that she’d left Mandy ‘some room to eat tonight’. She certainly did–Mandy can gain forty pounds and the dress will fit better than it did on the day of her wedding.


God, that hair.

After dinner, Ben’s sister ran up to me to say that she had been excited to learn I was coming because she reads my blog.

Whenever someone approaches me and tells me that, and I hadn’t previously been aware they knew I had a blog, I will freeze in place. I will stand perfectly still while alarm bells scream in my head and I think about anything that I’ve said that might cause me to have to apologize. Liz either hadn’t noticed that I was referring to that day as the White Trash Wedding of the Century or she agreed with me, but I wasn’t about to make any inquiries.




And then there was an excessive amount of bump and grind on the dance floor, and then glowsticks were busted out and THEN little kids started showing their butts to everyone and grandmas were hurling in the bathroom, and dudes got drunk and started burning cigarette holes in everything, and the air started to reek of sweat, singed polyester, and love.

We learned some juicy tidbits that night, namely that Ben and his new wife are still going to live in grandma’s basement, and that a flamboyant drag queen once mistook Ben for a bull dyke, and after a few drinks, the bride told us exactly what she thought of hobby seamstress girlfriend, and then after a few more drinks, we learned the secret that would drive us to conclude that the evening had reached its zenith, and that no more schadenfreude could be derived.

They were doing the ‘dollar dance’ portion of the evening, which is something I had never heard of before. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s essentially a cash-grab by the bride and groom where the guests line up and pay a dollar or more to dance with either of them. I elected not to participate, but Nicki lined up to dance with the bride. And while they were dancing the dance that Nicki paid for, the bride enhanced Nicki’s dancing experience by whispering to her that she’d needed to have her bridesmaids cut the crotch out of her pantyhose because she’d urinated in them. Even as the behavior of the guests devolved, it’s unlikely that anything could top the bride wetting herself, so we excused ourselves and congratulated one another on dodging a peroxide blond bullet.

Thus ends the tale of the White Trash Wedding of the Century. I hope that you have laughed, and cried, and shouted in horror, as I have on many sleepless nights since.

Wisconsin Day Three: The Crazy House

“If this was the afterlife, he thought, it was a lot like the House on the Rock: part diorama, part nightmare.” -Neil Gaiman, American Gods

On Friday, Nicki and I went to Spring Green to visit The House on the Rock, or as I like to call it, The House That Spite Built. You see, Alex Jordan, the madman behind Spite House, fancied himself quite the architect, even claiming to be on par with Frank Lloyd Wright. Frank Lloyd Wright, on the other hand, sneeringly dismissed Jordan with “I wouldn’t hire you to design a cheese crate or a chicken coop.” Thus, Jordan decided to build a monstrous parody of Wright’s Taliesin home, also located in Spring Green. The House on the Rock was so named due to its rather unusual placement on a 60-foot chimney of rock, which forced some individual rooms to have very odd, disconcerting proportions.


The ceilings in the original house were almost universally low, which has prompted me to wonder whether Alex Jordan was an extremely short man, or if he simply did not have access to a ladder whilst he was building it–in some areas, my 5’2″ self could stand on tiptoes and smack my head on the ceiling.

There were some random, locked doors, high up on the walls, and rooms where people were intended to be seated were raised even further off of the ground so that heads would still be quite close to the ceiling, offering no respite for the claustrophobic.

During his lifetime, Alex Jordan’s friends believed he lived in abject poverty, and in a way, it was true: he never had any money because he was always spending it on more STUFF to fill his home. Every room was packed to the gills with STUFF. By no means am I a minimalist, but after a short while, even I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of STUFF in the tours; by the end, Nicki and I were almost running through the exhibits because we just couldn’t take any more.


This musical display played the ‘Godfather’ theme on a constant loop, which may or may not make the nearby security guard feel like a macho, macho man for eight hours a day.

The standout of the tour through the original House is the Infinity Room, which projects out over the Wyoming Valley 218 feet and contains over 3,200 windows.





This room? Terrifying. Just as you peek your head over the railing to look out the glass panel on the floor to see just how far out you are, high above the treetops, you are reminded that this is someone’s homemade construction project AND of your own mortality as it sways in the wind.


I thought this statue was neat; the spiral staircase next to it was rickety and terrifying.

The original House comes to an abrupt end, and we’re pointed by a helpful wizard to tour two.


Tour two begins in the Millhouse opened in 1968, and houses way more crap than you’d believe any one human being could collect. The first rooms contain a lot of antique guns, dolls, mechanical banks, suits of armor, and so on and so forth.


I would imagine that your seriousness about a situation may increase exponentially with the number of barrels you choose to have on your gun. These guns, as you can see, are Serious Business.

Here are some suits of armor, dwarfed by a fireplace the size of my apartment:


And here is a clown bank that will surely be featured in an upcoming nightmare.


The tour continues into the ‘Streets of Yesterday’, which opened in 1971. It’s a recreation of a supposedly typical 19th century main street. The proprietors claim that this area is intentionally dim to simulate a nighttime environment, but really, the whole House is overly dark, to the point where it’s difficult to photograph anything, and additionally makes everything seem like an extended creepy dream.

344_33497463939_776_n 344_33497483939_1450_n


I want to travel back in time and feed people ‘medicinal’ tapeworms.

It was right around the ‘Streets of Yesterday’ when you could start plugging tokens into machines to make various mechanical things in the rooms start to play, and Nicki and I happened upon one titled ‘Death of a Drunkard’–this is one I’m glad we saw early in the tour as some of the mechanical things were on the disappointing side and I might not’ve been as inclined to put money into the machine later down the line.

Watch, and be amazed:

The ‘Heritage of the Sea’ opened in 1990, and features a 200ft whale battling with a giant octopus. The only thing that could make this room more awesome would be the inclusion of a tyrannosaurus standing atop the whale, screaming in triumph.

Here’s a small version of the battle, as there is nowhere in the room where you can photograph the enormous battle in its entirety. It’s simply too dark and too large.




See what I’m talking about? This thing is HUGE.


Along the sides of the room, on all three levels, they have many museum-sized model ships and other historical nautical pieces, including a large Titanic display, and Chester the Molester in a diving suit.


After the Octopus Garden is the Tribute to Nostalgia building, with even more nightmare fuel.



After Tribute to Nostalgia came the Music of Yesterday exhibit, which is one of the largest collections of animated and automated music machines.

‘Death of a Drunkard’ might’ve been the best quarter I ever spent–the best fifty cents has to go to the Mikado room. (This is not our video, but one I found on youtube, in case you were breathlessly awaiting more of our delightful commentary.)



I find it delightful that she’s peering into the rear end in front of her with obvious glee.

Shortly after this, we came to the World’s Largest Carousel:

Calliope music played: a Strauss waltz, stirring and occasionally discordant. The wall as they entered was hung with antique carousel horses, hundreds of them, some in need of a lick of paint, others in need of a good dusting; above them hung dozens of winged angels constructed rather obviously from female store-window mannequins; some of them bared their sexless breasts; some had lost their wigs and stared baldly and blindly down from the darkness.




And then there was the carousel.

A sign proclaimed it was the largest in the world, said how much it weighed, how many thousand lightbulbs were to be found in the chandeliers that hung from it in Gothic profusion, and forbade anyone from climbing on it or from riding on the animals.

And such animals! Shadow stared, impressed in spite of himself, at the hundreds of full-sized creatures who circled on the platform of the carousel. Real creatures, imaginary creatures, and transformations of the two: each creature was different. He saw mermaid and merman, centaur and unicorn, elephants (one huge, one tiny), bulldog, frog and phoenix, zebra, tiger, manticore and basilisk, swans pulling a carriage, a white ox, a fox, twin walruses, even a sea serpent, all of them brightly colored and more than real: each rode the platform as the waltz came to an end and a new waltz began. The carousel did not even slow down. “What’s it for?” asked Shadow. “I mean, okay, world’s biggest, hundreds of animals, thousands of lightbulbs, and it goes around all the time, and no one ever rides it.”





“It’s not there to be ridden, not by people,” said Wednesday. “It’s there to be admired. It’s there to be.” – Neil Gaiman, American Gods

The carousel marked the end of tour two and the beginning of tour three. It was at this point that I started to feel fatigued and overwhelmed just from looking at things; tour three’s rooms are mainly displays of things more museum-style, with less of the grandness of vision that created things like the Mikado room.


There were rooms full of dollhouses which I could appreciate for their intricate construction but I still find immeasurably creepy, particularly this one, with a figure peeping out of the attic.


Next came a series of circus rooms, with a collection totalling over one million pieces. In addition to some giant elephants, there’s a 40-piece animated circus band that plays in concert with an 80-piece orchestra, for a cacaphony of sound. It took 14 people three years to create, and has 37 miles of wiring and over 2000 motors. The room also houses a large number of mechanical displays, all of which were pushing people to buy diamonds.







‘Take Humpty Dumpty’s advice and buy that diamond now.’ ‘One of our beautiful diamonds will help.’ (With what, exactly?) ‘A beautiful diamond might persuade her.’ (But drugs in her cocktail are more of a sure bet.) ‘When the walrus speaks of diamonds, he means our beautiful gems.’ ‘One of our beautiful diamonds will help.’ (Help keep the couple inside the burning house from burning alive? WHAT?)

There were HUNDREDS of these things.

After that came another collection of guns, one of which was embedded in a prosthetic leg. If I ever lose a limb, I want my replacement to be slotted for weaponry!


After the guns came the ‘Oriental collection’, the ‘armor collection’ and the ‘crown jewel collection’, which are replicas of the Tower of London’s Crown Jewels and other assorted items of royalty. It was around this time that we began blasting through rooms; I was so overwhelmed by stuff at this point that I lost all of my social niceties and began openly laughing at a family that was yelling at their son to come take a picture with them by the Forbidden City replica RIGHT NOW.





After all of that came the Doll Carousel room, which houses not one, but TWO Doll Carousels, in case you hadn’t seen enough terrifying, dead-eyed things in one day.


One of them is riding a pirate!

Also in the doll carousel room, in a surprising contrast, was the World’s Largest Cannon, which was (again) so large, I couldn’t take one decent photo of it. Unforunately, there was no token-taking contraption that would allow you to fire said cannon–I’d probably pay a week’s salary to do it, on the condition that I get to aim it at one of the doll carousels.

ALSO in the room is a sculpture of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Fitting, as at this point, you have seen so much crap, you’re pretty certain you’ll die at any moment.


After the four horsemen, you’re brought back around to the world’s largest carousel and immediately afterward, you’re finally expelled back into the fresh air and wandering walkways to ensure you don’t leave without passing at least one gift shop.

All in all, I enjoyed the House on the Rock as I wholeheartedly love most all roadside attractions; they give me satisfaction on a deep, lizard-brain level, but visiting once was certainly enough for me–I don’t feel a pressing need to attempt to return to view their Christmas display, full of 6,000 Santas staring with dead eyes: the one in the bathroom, watching to see if I washed my hands thoroughly was enough.

One of these days, Alice.

Everyone who stayed home on Friday to watch the mid-season finale of Battlestar Galactica, I envypity you. Because WE watched ‘Nude on the Moon’, a movie where the title succinctly describes the plot. That is, if ‘Nude on the Moon’ HAD a plot. When I see movies this bad, I expect to see two robots and a cheeky lad silhouetted in the lower right-hand corner of the screen.

It’s about 10 minutes of two men doing ‘science’ to get themselves to the moon, which mostly involves random acts of chemistry, 2 minutes of the secretary pining for one of the uninterested scientists, 8 minutes of the most hilarious spacesuits ever, and 50 minutes of topless ladies cavorting in a manner that indicates that ‘Developmentally Disabled Nudes on the Moon’ might have been a more apt title.

Who knew that all it took to go to the moon was mixing a couple of chemicals together while staring pensively and muttering that you’re not interested in a family? If that’s true, I should’ve rocketed off to the moon at some point during 10th grade chemistry. Screw stealing dad’s Playboys, now adventurous pre-teens can use their ‘Lil Rascal Chemistry Kit’ to go to the moon!

So, the moon is full of topless babes wearing bikini bottoms that display ample amounts of coinslot (who also don’t talk, and therefore can’t talk back), and speedo-wearing dudes who are so hairy it looks like they might be wearing cashmere sweaters, plus two douchebags in the aforementioned hilarious spacesuits.  Also, the moon has a blue sky with plenty of atmosphere. Also, plants, trees, and plenty of water. Shockingly, the moon’s surface looks just like Florida!

Once our intrepid chemists arrive on the moon, they set out to explore, finding that the moon is full of gold (which they can’t take back, owing to the weight). The gold revelation, however, is completely forgotten once they see boobies, and apparently, so is the dialogue. For the period of nearly 40 minutes that they’re wandering around on the moon, there are maybe six lines of dialogue, consisting of “Hey look at that one” and then ten minutes of dialogue-free booby shots…then another three second shot of one of them saying “Get a picture of that one!” and then another ten silent minutes.

During his time on the moon, Our Hero falls in love with the leader of the Boob Squad, who looks exactly like his pining secretary, minus the giant black mole, complete with the world’s scariest eyebrows, but has to leave her when the fire extinguisher strapped to his back runs out of ‘oxygen’. When he gets back to Earth, he pictures his secretary naked and realizes that he could love her, after all.


Here’s what the Mystery Science Theater guys might have had to say about it: