I watched the 1991 flick Toy Soldiers last night, which is yet another one of my all-time favorite terrible movies.  And since more people have probably seen the Mini-Me sex tape than this movie, I’m gonna give you the short and stubby on what it’s all about.  First, you have Louis Gossett Jr. – who nobody recognizes as that fighter pilot who has saved the world at least two or three times.  The dude who used to be in the Smucker’s Jelly ads is hanging around as an FBI director instead of as a representative for a sweet, breakfast condiment manufacturer – and by condiment, I’m not talking about a latex penile sheath with peppermint flavoring.  Then you’ve got you’re Sean Astin, who was not only one of those pointy-eared, toad things from Lord of Rings, but Rudy Ruettiger to boot.  He was the first hobbit to ever play for Notre Dame, and it’s like nobody is picking up on it; I figured at least one person would ask him what it was like to hang out with the Hunch Back or Elijah Wood.  I refuse to believe a bunch of rich prep school kids couldn’t figure out the celebrities amongst them.  Currently before me is a scene where the guy from Stand By Me (the one who had his testicles latched onto by a leech), and some other guy that never went anywhere after this flick, get into a scuffle in their undewear.  They soon squash it, and then engage in a handshake that could only be goofier if it involved masturbatory and Masonic actions.

Another weird, yet highly entertaining part of this movie is the butler from Trading Places being cast as a teacher.  This guy had already been through a weird ass social experiment propagated by two rich ole fogies, made a ton of cash after hornswaggling the real crop report from Clarence Beaks, and then he decides to teach a bunch of misfit rich kids?  Oh my god.  I forgot the dude from one of the strains of Law and Order and/or Baby from Dirty Dancing’s dad was in this movie too.  I think he plays like a mob boss or something.  His son gets kilt, and the Mob becomes a benevolent society much like the apparent purpose of the Laity Lodge, or whatever that tragically named Howard Butt Jr. is always floggin’ on the FM dial.  Right Wing radio in the morning.  Good stuff.

The head terrorist has what he claims to be a control for the explosives placed all around the campus electrical-taped to his wrist.  It looks kind of like a bigger version of those silver watches with the calculator key pads that were all the rage in the nerd communities in the 80′s.  This dude would have been pure, uncut hell with cellular technology.  I doubt he could have strapped a bag phone to his wrist, and you know a terrorist ain’t going to carry what appears to be a purse around a bunch of fewls he’s terroristically threatening.  The boys who eventually Reynold’s wrap the terrorists devise their plan by using their school yearbook.  Every year when you signed your friend’s annuals, and made all those goofy comments about them being cute, a lunatic or your BFF, did you ever think to keep your copy because it might one day help you defeat Al Queda?  If you say you did, you’re lying like Oliver North at the Iran-Contra hearings – which until I was older, thought had something to do with that badass Nintendo game.  If you really thought it would come in handy when trying to defeat terrorists, you would have signed it: “There’s an uzi in locker 435, bottles of water in the cafeteria, and you can use the rolls as yeast grenades.  BFF.”

The whole theory of this movie was so freakin’ stupid, I can’t imagine how it’s production got funded - or how the actors could keep a straight face during filming.  Think about pitching this to a producer.  “Alright, so there’s a bunch of rich kids who get taken hostage by the armed rejects from El Chico.  One guy has a remote control strapped to his wrist that will blow the joint up; so all of the misfit students revolt using a remote controlled airplane as a distraction, and the pregnant alien guy from Enema Mine saves the day.”  You would get yelled at like you just took the last drink of Russell Crowe’s Fosters Oil Can.  But somehow, some way, a film more ignorant than Simple Jack got funded, made, and is still somehow commercially viable enough to run on cable movie channels.  Whoever pulled all of this off should get an award. I can see it now, “The Oscar for Most Ignorant Movie of The Year Since Ishtar goes to….”

I ain’t got anything else, and I ain’t even going to proofread this, so deal with it in all its naturality like Adrienne Barbeau in The Swamp Thing.  Tig ole bitties.  That’s all I’m typin.

(Sometimes when I watch movies, weird and random associations began popping into my head at will.  The following is my twisted take on another crappy Brandon Frazier flick)

The Mummy Returns is apparently about some undead hag that continues to nag a bunch of dudes by not dying, and being able to know exactly where they are when it is nag time.  To those who are mummified, it’s like an instinctual GPS.  Kind of like those salmon that swim back to the creek of their birth to get there freak on before being poached, roasted, negiri’d and turned into caviar.

To be honest, the only mummy I’ve seen in the movie so far is Brendan whatever’s wife.  She’s got the typical potentially big science fiction rack: nice wig, tight clothes, seemingly bountiful breasts restrained at all costs, and shoes to match all of the above.  Fraser and what’s her nuts have a kid whose role is a mix of toddler Indiana Jones and that crime fighting kid in Home Alone.  He’s always running around ruining some type of historically significant ruins.  Seemingly, none of these fools saw what happened to the Nazi’s when they broke open that fancy medicine chest Indy had found in some Middle Eastern dirt.  Simply put, unless Dr. Peter Venkman is there, I’m not playin’ with no ghosts.

This version of Who’s Your Mummy is apparently really about a mummy who has dangling dice.  He’s an old, wash rag wearin’ mofo who talks in a dialect that seems to be a low fat version of Jabanese – mind you, Brendon’s hoetater ain’t wearin’ a Mad Max bikini, and isn’t chained to him or sharin’ space with a muppet, but it is quite similar.  I take it mummies must not have very good health care from the looks of this guy.  As I’ve said, their rags are all dried out and some even have holes in them.  The Scorpion King looks like that skeleton from Biology class, except he’s missing a part of his head.  I’m sure he probably lost his job at Mummies R’ Us, his insurance was cancelled, and so he tried COBRA.  In case you don’t know, COBRA is a little start up company that came out of G.I. Joe, and now guarantees coverage to all evil villains, spooks, specters, aliens, transvestites and Saved By the Bell junkies.  They’ve also got a prescription plan which helps you get the pills that help keep your clothes the right sex.  That same plan can also be used to purchase the newest drug on the market – Slateroxydone- which will help cure anyone of their obsession of the Dancing with The Stars “star” before he really became a star.  Within 36 hours, you will no longer want hair like Zachs, know that Screech is two shades of gay, and have any desire to watch an ignorant show with enough canned laughter to start a laugh bank - Laugh Banks are the humor equivalent to food pantries/soup kitchens.  They are key to getting through unfunny times and help keep laughter in the hearts of many unfunny people who can’t come up with jokes of their own.

There are also some pasty gents from some land with an English accent who apparently want something their mummy never gave them; so they are also on a quest to take something from the Centipede Queen, or whatever the hell it is.  One of them was talking to Frasier’s kid and throwing out one liners like a fly fisherman at a nightclub.  Anywho, The mummi (is that the plural?) start coming at them, and these geniuses come up with the idea of shooting at them.  Shooting at an undead fool made of sand who is wearing a toga made of papyrus isn’t gonna get yer slinky slung. If anything, we all know you need to run them near a freezer or some type of H2O depository.  You also apparently need some overly dressed Arabian chaps who ride horses as opposed to carpets - I’ve been telling people for years that Steppenwolf were a bunch of goddamn liars.  These cats are out in an after meal special, and they’re wearing what appear to be high thread count black sheets and head garb.  Maybe they’re Snuggies for Arabians. 

A bald Arabian Telly Savalas-looking fool just used his superpowers to push two swanky hotel robe wearing hooligans off the top of a roof, and managed to smash them together in the air.  They continue to speak those funky, made up languages that would be more fun if you just let the viewer make up their own dialogue.  That way, “Yan ne A ho ho E”, could mean, “Get me another beer.” or whatever you wanted it to mean.  Now the Arabian Kojak is doing things with water that haven’t been seen since Moses parted his wig, or Jesus went on a walkabout.  There’s a water storm that’s like a huge water mullet.  The waves in the front are all about the business of sinking your ship.  While the waves in the back are having a good time trying to drown you after the ship sinks.

Oh hell, now they’re on a balloon that looks like a prehistoric Jiffy Pop bag with a fruit crate attached to it.  The dude driving may or may not be Ole Dirty Bastard, a/k/a Dirt McGirt, a/k/a Big Baby Jesus a/k/a Osiris.  As in Hanna Montana’s dad’s name, Billy Ray Osiris.  I don’t think ODB and Hair Helmet were related though.  I’d like to go on, but I honestly can’t take anymore.  The last straw was seeing their stereotypical jungle walk, which was lighted all the way by torches – like lanterns, candles and flammable newts weren’t available in that era.