Dead Squad: Temple of The Undead
Overall Recommendation
Recommendation?
Are you a horny 13 year old who wants to see some nice big tits and a whole lot of gore without having to think at all? If yes, then press play. If no, keep looking.
Plot Autopsy
Plot Autopsy
- Three guys meet three girls in a random foreign jungle country and hit it off drinkingly.
- The next day, rafting, they decide to go explore the side swamp which is marked no trespassing.
- They find a ruin, which also has modern technology as well as 2nd world war shit.
- A bunch of zombies lurch around and then an alpha zombie shows up
- The alpha zombie gets a zombie blow job
- After losing all respect for this movie, you wait numbly for it to end.
Zombie Description
Zombie Description
These are what the fuck ever zombies. There’s a pink serum that causes it, and then there’s wriggly parasitical things and webbed feet and super jacked physiques and a woman with her brain exposed and a fucking zombie blowjob. Whatever the director wanted to show, he used the “They’re *zombies*” excuse as to why shit was just being made up on whim.
Where the money went
Where the money went
The money went into special effects, but it’s unfortunate, since almost everything looks to have been done with the 13 year old male as their target audience. The acting sucked, the script sucked, the dialogue… it doesn’t count. It’s not there yet. It’s still idiot babble in it’s purest, unrefined, unadulterated, uneducated hollering.
Best Weapon
Best Weapon
Look, next time I want to start a fight, I’m throwing a severed and skinned head into my opponent’s lap.
That was new!
That was new!
Zombie blowjob. Seen it, not interested in seeing it again.
Can I get a hand?
Can I get a hand?
No. You can’t get anything other than a boot up your ass or a kick to the zombie blowjob nads.
Review Notes
Review Notes
Ok. I feel like I’m properly high. Fingers aren’t working all that well.
Oh, and you know another thing? Fuck Cover Letters. What a bullshit practice from the past. I wish I could kick Norman Rockwell in the nuts.
So… like the government is bad.
We’re in black and white and red. Those are the only colors.
It’s… 1953? I think?
Creepy Nazi! I think?
1958.
“Shoulda nuked all you Nazi bastards!” True. True.
The device gives him Yoda ears.
Bright pink serum now?
And he went red?
And now we have bureaucratic issues going on.
Some guy looks sort of like Elvis in an army suit is shutting the doctor down.
Paperwork is… well…
The patient barfed pink all over everyone.
And then his eyes turned pink and he bit the nurse. A whole lot of pink.
Ate a guy’s face. Now they making it almost red again.
Something wriggling around in the guy’s skin…
Looks like the nurse is getting up again…
This must be modern times since it’s in color and color bikinis.
A cocktail brunch?
3 guys. 3 women. Each appears to make a match.
“Death in the jungle” That’s one hell of a drink name!
This woman does not rate a rip-off ZZ Top guitar riff.
And just like that, rafting down the river. What river? Where?
Now they are arguing about if they should deviate from the charted course.
Littering? That dude is dead.
Literally holding the “no trespassing” sign up out of their ways. This is weaponized level stupidity.
Carved jungle icons.
A huge waterfall.
That fucker keeps littering!
Now it’s MTV beach hook-up series type shit.
Such awkward flirting that I want to puke.
Someone pushed the raft away. Mystery!
“She doesn’t like guys touching her.”
“You should get your clothes on.”
Gonna walk a mile or so through the jungle?
She’s wearing inappropriate footwear. Worst sin ever. Except the littering dude.
A path to a temple of the skinned face and warped eyes.
Who is this man in grey doing covert shit?
Is that a pregnant lady?
“Like Jungle-Dracula’s Castle!”
So, two of the six are just gonna get hammered?
Some menacing doctor. Is that the same doctor?
Don’t hit the woman. Dick.
And… something just exploded out of her stomach area and she’s dead.
No idea what that was all about.
I like this woman. The non-drunk one.
Who the fuck is that red covered doctor talking to?
I… didn’t expect him to strip in remorseful anger. That’s a new one.
So… kids into the temple.
But… there’s tire tracks lurking outside!
If I froze the fresh strawberries in the fridge, would they be the same as store-bought frozen strawberries?
Our idiots are exploring the inner temple area, which gets plenty of light, so is “Lit”.
Now reaching into a drain and there’s a gun?
Which they shoot at a statue until it opens “A secret room!”. This woman is the female equivalent of Mr. Bean.
Modern cameras, old electrical shit… great ideas abound.
Slowly, the two idiots are learnding to werk togedder.
Exploring… with vodka in hand…
So many faces…
The door is closing! The nerd got to the door and jammed it!
Anyone see that huge pile of red they’re almost stepping in?
Oh, there’s red dripping from the ceiling
Got it in his mouth, maybe?
Tier 3?
Torches?
This playset comes ready built to put the Temple of Doom to shame.
They found a generator. A very old one.
Everyone’s phones just went out. All at the same time.
No one else thinks that’s scary?
He’s given it exactly 7 oz of fuel. That’s gonna help a whole lot.
Quietest generator I’ve ever heard.
Outside, it’s getting dark.
When in doubt or questioning, pushing all the unlabeled buttons one at a time until alarms start shrieking probably isn’t the best game plan.
Looks like something running around out there too.
CRT? Cathode Ray Technology?
The drunks are off to snuggle.
The explorers are going exploring
The nerds are.. being analog.
The blonde has gone missing.
The nerds are officially awesome. Says them.
Some kinda zombie thing watching them.
Oh! A zombie reaching almost got her! Ok, there is something zombie to this movie after-all.
That’s not good. Sex on a pod with a sharply tentacled thing writing around inside it.
Now back to the doctor who strips when he gets upset.
He’s waving a gun around and supplicating to a swastika.
Who the fuck are you talking to and why does your accent change every scene?
Well, we’ve met our first zombie and he’s… oily and boily. I think that’s where the budget went.
Rather quick to write that one character off, especially as she’s been shown to be the only combative-capable of the group.
Now she’s trapped in a zombie room… and wreaking havoc.
Webbed feet?
Oh. A shower faucet of blood. That’s new.
“We’re supposed to know which way we’re going!”
Oh, that’s all the zombies now that were characters during the black and white intro.
And… he throws her to the wolves. What a dick.
She has very large breasts.
He has a very serrated white tongue.
Uh… there’s some sort of alpha zombie?
Who… ripped the blonde’s bottom jaw off. I think that’s it for her.
Looking for the bad-ass woman, finding another creature pod…
Sure, let’s open it. Why not?
Or, you know? Why?
Some sort of parasitical thing with fangs and a lamprey mouth just jumped out at him, but he shot at it a lot and at the bare minimum he winged it. Not a lot of closure in that scene.
Back to the weird doctor babbling something about being in a car in a parking lot in front of a big house. I think he’s talking to a corpse.
Yup. That’s not a good look.
Bro-hunk is making a run for it.
The rest of them are trying, too.
Oh shit. The stripper doctor locked them in!
How many people know about this hidden temple?
A corpse almost laded on bro-hunk?
Here comes trouble! Alpha zombie!
Oh, shit- he’s the original from the intro!
He is fucking huge.
Bro-hunk is in deep shit!
Bro-hunk is… betraying his group.
Bro-hunk just got it handed it him.
Now comes the pleading.
And the lifting and swinging by his leg.
He stabbed it with… nothing of significance.
Especially after he heals that quicky
What? Who the fuck is this other zombie woman?
Bro-hunk just got de-spined.
Alpha zombie wandering off with the corpses…
One fucked up zombie picknick. Like, who the hell films that?
No, you cannot climb out through the generator exhaust vent. At the moment, it’s filled with 300 degree noxiously toxic chemicals. Barring a still glowing lava-tube, it is about the least hospitable environment for human life imaginable.
None of this is really making sense, I’m yawning, the three of them being chased by zombies.
Where are the midget zombies coming from? Cat, glitch away.
I wish I could do a little bump of coke right now. Like, a folded up scrap of magazine cover dipped into the baggie.
Why am I watching one zombie give another a shoe and then getting offended when she drops it?
Alpha zombie here to solve shit.
Zombie blow job. You fucking kidding me?
Zombie arm ripping off contest.
Head squishing contest.
Uh… I just didn’t write anything for a while since it was sort of “Swan Lake meets subterranean steroid zombie relationship power struggle.” But then they ended it with a combined punch into the stomach and pull the spine out so fast the skinned skull (complete still with eyes) pops out of the abdomen.
This movie is going where other movies did not go, and it’s pretty obvious why.
I think the last surviving couple- the nerds- locked themselves in the commandant’s private office?
Specimens, a 35 mm film machine…
WHAT THE FUCK AM I WATCHING? ZOMBIE STRIP CLUB ACT WITH MIDGET ZOMBIE BITING HER CROTCH? I REPEAT: WHAT THE FUCK AM I WATCHING?
Going to make formaldehyde Molotov cocktails? Ok. The science adds up. I just checked. “Formaldehyde is a colorless, highly toxic, and flammable gas at room temperature that is slightly heavier than air.”
Really looks like this plan failed.
And why the fuck does that zombie randomly have a python on it?
Someone with an Uzi and an axe is here to save the day.
It’s the bad-ass woman!
Dude! She’s the spy! OR the bad person! OR whatever!
There is so little actually making anything resembling a shred of sense that I’m not sure what to write. Fucking mess, ya’ll. Fucking mess.
How the hell can they expect another 18 minutes of this crap?
Well, I have watched about 7 minutes without anything of note occurring, and then the alpha zombie starts a fight by throwing a skinned head into the woman’s lap. Not really any way of mistaking that one.
So… alpha zombie used to have a dog.
Rock beats forehead. Every time. Rock even beats Dragon, if you get it in the Forehead.
And the movie ends and I want my two dollars back.
————End Transmission——————–
Introduction
Introduction
What can I do? What can I do that another person can’t? How can I use this difference to be helpful to people who need it, and who would appreciate me for helping them? It’s hard to sit, pondering this question, and coming up empty; especially when there’s a full one right beside you that will take all the tired away.
I’ve pondered why I’m here. I can’t seem to do any lasting good anywhere, or rather, enough of it that I feel like I’m a resource instead of a misfit parasite. I’ve talked at length about the options I consider to remove myself from this exhaustingly unfulfilling existence. Everything is on the table, or if not, it’s available on a nearby shelf.
If I knew I had to die, I’d wing-suit daily until I lost the game of chicken against gravity. But I’m not convinced I have to die. I’m a walking emotional mass-casualty event with a chip on his shoulder, a scowl on his face, balled up fists with angry, hard eyes… But if I’ve learned anything from watching movies, it’s that people like me can go into ugly situations and do ugly things and as a result, perpetuate a calm, happy, peaceful life for others that isn’t disrupted by the inequities of lesser men and beset upon all sides by…
But in reality, what can I do to live this? Become an advocate and stand on a milk carton preaching to people on the street corners downtown? Try to start a social media campaign to raise public awareness? My brain doesn’t work that way. There’s too many steps involved and my wires start sparking and then we all smell toast.
But to answer the question “What can I do that another person can’t?” in the previously proposed journey to the Ukraine front and taking up arms… there’s just so many fucking puns here that haven’t landed since I haven’t offered the reveal. But- What could I do to help, beyond conventional soldiering, which my body tells me I’m too old and broken down for.
I can’t shoot a slingshot without my left wrist paining me. My hands are destroyed. My spine is dry pasgetti and hardened bubblegum. My brain never worked right, and that was before the drugs and pummelings. How can I take this wreckage of uselessness into a war zone and do something the real soldiers can’t?
I think it comes down to “I can cut off a Russian’s finger, cook it in front of him, and then eat it as he watches.” I have no squeamishness about it. The horrifically ugly truth is that I would probably enjoy the sensation of absolute disparity of power. I’m not going to talk about how this could help improve the situation beyond the statement that information is power, and if you were in a room with someone and they were treating and consuming you as such, what do you think you’d be able to keep secret knowing you’ve got 9 more fingers, 10 toes, 2 ears, and a nose?
All injuries that can be tourniquetted with a zip-tie, or branded closed. What would you choose to keep secret knowing that not only will you be released back to Russia without fingers, toes, facial features, but also with the knowledge that there is such a monster still walking the planet that makes Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs look like elitist Disney productions?
I’m trying to feel like a monster as I write this, but all I can hear is Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” looping through my head. Am I a bad man for believing I have the ability to do such a thing? Would I be a bad man if I did such a thing? Would doing bad for the sake of good affect anything? Or is there even a system of accounting for our actions and providing repercussions, or does it just get dark as the music stops and then there’s nothing so fuck it? “My darling, I…”
(8/24)
Last night I couldn’t hold a .38 to take my own life, and today I found myself holding tightly to the cardboard carton of a rotisserie chicken at the supermarket like a drowning man to a rope from an unexpected ship. I felt armed with Excalibur and striding downslope to vanquish my enemies.
It wasn’t an out an out attempt, or I wouldn’t be writing this, nor was the chicken the savory BBQ flavor or the smoked mesquite or any of the other altered offerings. This is a regular rotisserie chicken that has probably been pumped full of no less that 20% it’s weight with a salted water solution. It adds bulk and weight.
Bulk and weight were more involved in yesterday’s pistoling than anything else. I tried to eject 5 rounds, and then spin the cylinder shut for the gamble, but my hands just fucked up. I couldn’t get the cylinder free of the frame, I couldn’t remember if you can spin the cylinder freely in the chamber…
The net effect of my actions are that I’m still here, my wife is asleep on the couch next to me, and I no longer trust myself with anything resembling gun competency. There’s a reason the army trains under really overly intense situations. When you’re not conditioned to maintain focus through them, the little things that we trust our bodies to know what to do elude us.
Like my experience in a burning car, I kept fumbling at the latches and hammer until I threw it aside in disgust. Disgust at myself for going that far, disgust at myself for not having the cool to make it happen as I wanted it to. A simple fucking game of Russian roulette. I bet I could pick up one of the revolvers right now and spin the cylinder without thinking about it.
I don’t want to, though. There’s so much more to vomit, but I’m feeling dry and parched. I may have a job soon. I don’t know what I’m doing, or why. The closest thing I can come to why is that I either want to buy a full size E-series 4×4 van, or that I need to start saving up my own money for the eventuality that I do find myself driving off into the sunset to begin the next, non-Russian roulette containing portion of my life.
(8/31)
Got a couple more tattoos, the mushrooms are pinning finally, I’m working on making a go-bag at my therapist’s suggestion so that I do not find myself attempting Russian roulette. My buddy is getting divorced. Wife and I had a great trip out to Snake River, and the new Astro-Van Baked Alaska is the bomb. Best sleep imaginable.
In fact, I’d rather be sleeping than attempting this, which is so fucking overdue by now that I think I just need to launch into it and catch everything up with life details later, assuming there is time and interest, and after prioritization and memory loss.
Dead Squad: Temple of the Undead “A group of young people become lost in the jungle during a river rafting trip and stumble upon a long lost ruin that is home to a host of mysterious monsters.” I mean… I didn’t even feel compelled or even inclined to read the plot description after that Scooby-Doo travesty of a naming fuckaroo.
This makes it sound like these guys are the Dead Squad kind like The Lost Boys and The Goonies. I’m just saying that setting themselves up in that league is pretty stratified, and they’re really going to have to prove it… to prove… I don’t know what. That this movie doesn’t suck?
It’s got all the hallmark cliché’s that usually ring true, but I’m going into this one with an open mind and a mouthful of chocolate, which is indefinitely better than a cerebellum full of lead. Or a mouthful of lead for that matter. Shit, a cerebellum of chocolate wouldn’t be no field of happy-beans either.
We all seen how that documentary Forest Gump turned out. I can’t remember. Did he get Jenny? Did he know what to do? I need a bong hit and some coffee. Well, fuck. The Chromebook isn’t cooperating. I guess it’s no review tonight after-all. Shit.
(9/1) So… Like, hit the gym a couple days in a row. That was good. And my wife is gonna be pissed, the house stinks again. I used a blowtorch to burn the Hobbit-hair off my toes and fingers. My feet feel a bit burnt. I think I pushed things a bit.
But that’s ok, wifey got me signed back into Amazon with the Chromebook, so let’s start this shit. Note- I have begun setting up my ditty bag for in case I have to bail to avoid wifey’s rage, so I won’t reach for the .38 again. But in all scenarios of “fleeing the chaos and flames”… in all the “Run to the hills, run for your lives!” moments imaginable, a bit of operating capital is going to be needed for any duration to be achieved.
The van is a thirsty bitch. Food costs money. It’s… I will use the word impossible here, although I know it not to be true. It is a topic of such uncomfortable nature between my wife and I- The whole “I’ve got a kit and can bail out when my wife starts throttling inanimate objects while screaming incoherently.” existence… So I don’t exactly want to have a conversation with her about: “Hey, you mind if I withdraw a couple hundred from the bank to stick inside a bag so that I’ll have it the next time you go batshit bananas bonkers 28 Days Later on me?”
See how that already doesn’t sound right? So much of what I’m existing through doesn’t sound right, but when I imagine it all to silence, I cannot conjure that which would sound right from my imagination. The closest thing I come to is the image of a midget with a Boombox blasting Brickhouse while strutting behind me.
I had an interview on the phone today for a job that I wasn’t qualified for, nor did it pay enough. I got flustered ½ way through the interview and babbled a bunch of shit and then bailed on the whole process. I’m not proud of myself. Aside from putting in work on the bag, I don’t feel proud of myself for anything. I wish I could think of something.