There is something seriously wrong with me. I believe I have some kind of terminal illness. Or maybe there’s something wrong with the world? No, I’m pretty sure it’s me. It’s not the kind of wrong therapy, science, or medicine, modern and Western or ancient and Eastern, can fix. Psychologists shun me; tell me that nothing can be done. I am irredeemable, irretrievable, beyond the hope of mankind. Doctors tell me that the sum side effects of the medications they could possibly prescribe would be enough to kill a man ten thousand times ten thousand times over. Surgeries are totally out of the question, for none save the unfortunately fictional Dr. Herbert West have been able to locate the living will and spark of life.
My life was changed forever Tuesday night. I like an Uwe Boll movie. A lot. A really, really, really, whole lot. And not in the funny funny ha ha House of the Dead way, either. I mean full, wholehearted adoration. I expected to discover many things about Dr. Boll over the years: tax fraud, use of Nazi gold to fund his movies, bestiality, stuff like that. That he is the love child of Steve Oedekerk and Lloyd Kaufman was not one of them.
Postal Dude (played by Zack Ward, who must suck Boll’s cock like a Thai whore to be in every single one of his movies) lives in a crappy little town called Paradise. His moose of a wife is fucking everyone in town but him. He can’t get a job anywhere. He’s just about at the end of his rope. He wants to get out of town and needs cash fast. His uncle Dave, who runs a Benny Hinn-style religious camp (my favorite kind!), is over a million dollars in tax debt and needs cash fast. So they team up to steal the only surviving truckload of Krotchy dolls in existence after a freighter carrying the rest of them from China to the U.S. sank. You see, they are extremely popular and sell on the internets for four grand a pop. Unfortunately for them, the Taliban also want the dolls, so they can fill them with Asian bird fru and infect America. Except Dave’s second-in-command Rich wants to bring about Revelation by using the terrorists’ bird fru to infect the whole world. And to fulfill this prophecy, Verne Troyer must be raped by a thousand monkeys (which is something I’d actually like to see happen in real life).
There is nothing this movie won’t do. The tag line was, “Some movies go too far. This movie starts there”. And they weren’t fucking kidding. Several children are mowed down by machine gun fire in an amusement park owned by a cameo-havin’ Uwe Boll, and it’s funny. Uwe Boll himself makes fun of people dying in Auschwitz, and it’s funny. Verne Troyer is raped by a thousand monkeys, and it’s funny. Osama bin Laden and George W. Bush skip, arm in arm, into a nuclear mushroom cloud sunset, and it’s really fucking funny. I could list jokes all day long, because the flick is non-stop gag after gag. Granted, when you throw everything you can at the wall, a couple are bound to not stick and plop to the floor, but easily 90% of the material sticks like a horny octopus.
And there are some good comedic actors in here, too. J.K. Simmons has a small role as a street-preachin’ politician, and although at first you think he’s slumming, it seems like he’s havin’ a pretty damn good time. And Dave Foley as Uncle Dave, flappin’ his wang around for all to see, is hilarious. There are some fine performances from relative unknowns as well, namely Chris Coppola as Rich. He’s got quite a few credits, but few of them from anything noteworthy, but he proves his third-star billing worth here, bringing to mind a young, extremely hyperactive John Lovitz.
I still don’t know if it was that everything-but-the-kitchen-sink mentality that made it funny, or if it was genuine, Satan-given talent, but frighteningly enough, I think it’s the latter. The stuff isn’t funny simply because it was presented and we were told, “Here, this is funny”, but because it was presented with talent. I have a hard time believing lightning could strike twice. I’d like to think this is a once-in-a-lifetime, stars-and-planets-in-alignment, gorgeous little piece of serendipity that the universe bestowed upon a world that really, really needs something like this that actually works, and not another piece of shit from those fucking idiots who just released Disaster Movie. Seriously, massive kidney failure combined with syphilis and bubonic plague seems like a bigger bunch of laughs than that…that…I’ve had too much whishkey…shisky…whishkshy…SCOTCH! to come up with a funny, scatologically charged and rotting-goat-corpse-filled analogue for it, but trust me, it sucks like a 10-gallon shop vac crossed with a fifteen-year-old whore. Point is, if you find the following exchange funny:
Reporter: "I want to address some of the rumors that you finance your movies with Nazi gold."
Uwe Boll: "Of course. They're true. Somebody has to do something with all that money."
Old Lady: "How dare you! My father died in Auschwitz!"
Uwe Boll: "My grandfather also died at Auschwitz. He fell out of a watchtower!"
-then a) you’re going to hell, but don’t worry, I’ll probably be your cellmate and I have a fucking great CD collection, and b) you should run out and pick this bastard up because you’ll laugh just as hard at the rest of it.
The Moral of the Story: Kids getting violently murdered by machine gun-wielding terrorists is komedy gold!
DVD Xtras: When you’re done with the movie, check out the video of Boll boxing his four top internet critics, including some 17-year-old kid running a website from his mom’s basement. The guy from Rue Morgue actually lands a couple of hits, but they all get crushed. I’m sure they thought it’d be hilarious to pound on the hip-to-ironically-hate-him-worst-filmmaker-of-all-time, but apparently none of them ever saw a picture of him. He is not a small man. And he’s an honest-to-Satan trained boxer. Oops. Reminds me of the Axl Rose/Bob Guccioni, Jr. feud, but in reverse. You know, if Axl wasn’t a giant pussy.
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