Year Eight, or The Triumphant Return of Your Mother's Amazing Technicolor Dreamboat

Hel-lo, ladies...remember me? From the discotheque.

Just a head's up to all my patient little woprophiles grooving out on life while I've been otherwise occupied, cursing another foul sow of an East Coast winter wreaking havok on my arthritic middle-aged joints, and sorting my funking life out while planning my course of global assault (once the weather breaks, Gods, I'm older than that empty Quaalude script you've got nostalgically tucked away in an attic trunk next to a big box beta copy of New Wave Hookers), which includes lots of new genre reviews by your main man here at one of  your favorite way stations of exploitation for the past eight years running. Those of you that have been reading all along should know all too well by now of my propensity to go dormant for several months at a time, to recharge mein batteries, refresh the perspective, screen some new stuff, and focus on my usual inimitable brand of pagan balls-out decadence that leaves mothers worldwide a sopping wet, trembling mass of spent sexual energy. I assure you, I've done all of these things in our time away from each other, and will continue to do so as long as it's sexy to me. And it's all still REAL sexy to me, so break that up, pack it into the glass slider, and put some fire to it, motherfuckers. Wopspl oi!oi!oi!-muthafuckin'-tation. Misogynist black gloved killers, helpless pillow-chested knife-cushions, seventies crime drama, groovy drug-soaked sex orgies and ritualistic sacrifice, ecological terrors and monstrosities, you name it (as long as it's not named Freddy Krueger, haha), we've got some for 'yer. Year eight kicks off...right now.