Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; send in the Mounds, or at least the Almond Joy. This is the weekly internet column that may appear as any other, but go in for a closer whiff and get sprayed in the face with our hilarious lack of taste; wholly evident in the phrasing of that last sentence alone. Every week we bring a bad movie to the middle of the center ring. We mock it, we roast it, we hit it repeatedly in the face with a lemon harangue pie. But then, we bring out the giant seltzer bottle of whacked appreciation, which is a totally real thing. Once the foolish movie feels only slightly less foolish, we offer a reprieve from this metaphorical circus in the form of a decadently unwise snack food item themed to that movie.
October is here, and that can mean only one thing…the end of voter registration! Actually, that wasn’t what we were thinking, but it is an important reminder and we implore you to do your civic duty. Hehe, doody. No, for those of me here at Junkfood Cinema October means a month-long celebration of the greatest holiday this side of the annual return of the McRib: Halloween. In an ongoing effort to keep our wanton mediocrity at least on theme, we’re once again instituting Junkfood Horror. We begin this year’s slate with a hilarious bit of federal mail fraud. We maybe kinda definitely don’t worry about it intercepted a letter to the Chiodo brothers from an angry consortium of clowns called W.O.C.K.A who had just watched Killer Klowns from Outer Space. Their list of grievances was shocking devoid of any scruples against inaccurate spelling. Here’s what the grand high goofball had to say…
Dear Chiodos (Or To Whichever Chioda This More Readily Applies):
We, the World Order of Clowns/Klowns of America, or (W.O.C.K.A.) were recently made aware of your 1988 horror film Killer Klowns from Outer Space. Needless to say we are outraged, if a little behind the times. After a recent screening of the film, we were so angry that we quickly called a organizational meeting that took place in the broom closet of a local joke shop; all 600 members present. The din of discontent was so raucous that not even my comically over-sized, and hilariously archaic ear trumpet proved to be any assistance. Full disclosure, that may be because it’s primary function is a glitter projectile. Suffice to say, we have a bone to pick with the two of you, and not the funny bone…vital to human anatomy as we understand it though it may be.
How dare you take something as beloved as clowning and use it as the centerpiece of a horror movie. Sure, the makeup and costume design in your film were respectable, but at what cost? Don’t you realize you are in danger of making children afraid of clowns? Can you image a world wherein people were actually terrified of the sight of tumbling buffoons with painted faces brandishing balloon animals always on the verge of exploding? Where children scream and cry in terror when in the presence of a cackling kabuki reject? Your film will make clowns the stuff of nightmares and repressed phobias, and that boils my paisley bowtie. Where does it end? Former clowns in the Chicago area killing young boys and stashing them in his crawlspace? You’re both clearly sick.
Your film also represents a staggering ignorance about the fine art of clowning. As obviously neither of you have spent as much time with clowns as doctors prescribe, that would be our group’s Doctors Go-Go and Snowflake, allow me to correct a few bozo-brained misconceptions. First, and I cannot stress this enough without using a giant pencil and disproportionally small piece of paper (classic), clowns do not hail from outer space. Though one could argue that only a being from another planet would willingly adopt our silly names, unfortunate fashion, and copious amounts of grease paint, there has been no scientific evidence to support that clowns come from space. And according to Dr. Cocoa, PhDeedle-Dee, circus tents are not equipped with warp drive nor are they composed of a fabric formidable enough to withstand the intense heat of atmospheric reentry. So joke’s on you! Also, we have never once turned defenseless townsfolk into popcorn and/or cotton candy. Popcorn is a classic treat and cotton candy has never caused anyone harm outside of cavities and/or diabetes.
But more than anything else, your film made clowns look ridiculous. As our esteemed treasurer, Colonel Yum Yum, pointed out, you have insulted the dignity of children’s birthday party performers and low-rent department store opening maestros everywhere. You’ve violated the sanctity of the pie-in-the-face, the Punch and Judy show, and the majestic poetry of shadow puppets. I guess we should have expected this sort of tomfoolery from a movie called Killer Klowns from Outer Space; no relation of course to our fake vomit and dog poo archivist, Tom Foolery. And why would we ever resort to listening to punk music from The Dickies and electro-Casio trite when we have the celebrated melodies of the calliope and plastic kazoos?
Your film has become a detriment to our honored profession. Over the last, err, many years, the number of grown men willing to actually attend clown college has been steadily decreasing and we can only assume that your movie is entirely to blame. So mock us if you will, oh Brothers Chiodo, present a world wherein clowns are not to be taken seriously; where these perfectly harmless and not-at-all-scary artisans are cartoony, but no less nightmarish maniacs. Then go ahead and drop them into an environment of truly idiotic wastes of carbon who are then somehow able to thwart the elaborate schemes of clowns? Look bub, if alien clowns want to kill everyone on the planet, those alien clowns will kill everyone – we’re getting off topic here.
Our honking, slide-whistling, hand-buzzing rage aside, we leave you only with this reasoned plea, Chiodos. Do not presume to understand the craft and subtle nuance of clowns the world over until you’ve walked a mile in our enormous floppy shoes.
Junkfood Pairing: Popcorn and Cotton Candy
Just not at the same time, and definitely not if you happen to drop either on the floor. After all, you never know who that has been.